Somewhere In There
by KreativeKristine
Summary: When an accident robs Al of 24 years worth of his memory, it's up to Sam and Tina to get him through his ordeal. Warning: Al might be OOC at times because of his condition. Is there hope after he hits an emotional rock bottom?
1. Chapter 1

SOMEWHERE IN THERE

**Author's note and disclaimer:Nope, I do not own the copyrighted characters of Quantum Leap; although Doctor Streebing is my own OC. I wrote this fic over fifteen years ago on a computer that used WordPerfect 5.1, so I am not sure how well the formatting survived the transition to MS Word. I did run this fic through spell/grammar check, so I am hoping it came out all right. Anyways, I do hope you get some enjoyment out of this story!**

**SOMEWHERE IN THERE**

**NOVEMBER 26, 2001**

Darkness dissolved into blinding, bright light, and a throbbing pain encircled his head like a rubber band. He ran his fingers along the top of his head, only to find a lump that felt as big as a golf ball. Turning his head to one side, Albert Calavicci caught sight of a pretty blonde in a nurse's uniform and a handsome, young-looking man.

"Ooohhhhhhh," Al moaned, rubbing the knot on his head. "What happened?"

"Are you all right, Honey?" Tina whispered, leaning over and kissing Al on the cheek.

"Where am I?" There was fear in the man's voice. "What's going on?"

"It's okay, Al. We're here, Buddy, right here," Sam Beckett assured his injured friend. "There's no need to be afraid."

"Al. . . you know my name? How. . . I mean . . . who are you two?"

"Al, please don't," Sam said, his voice trembling. "This is no time for joking around."

"Come again?"

"Stop it!" Sam's eyes filled with fear. "I know you like to goof around with us, but memory loss is nothing to joke about!"

Frustration, confusion, and fear bubbled inside of the injured man. He tried to sit up but a tidal wave of dizziness swept over him. Closing his eyes, Al slipped back onto his pillow and rubbed the throbbing lump that pounded like a bass drum. He clapped his left hand over his mouth and felt a smooth, cold sheet of metal rub against his face; and when he opened his eyes, he saw a splint securely fastened to his ring finger with adhesive tape. At the sight of the splint, he shuddered.

"What's happening?" Al's voice quivered as he spoke. "H-how . . . how did I get hurt?"

"You fell off a step ladder trying to change a light bulb," Tina replied. "The doctor says you have a bad bump on your head, a broken finger, and a badly twisted ankle. He says you're lucky that's all you broke."

"I . . . fell?"

". . . And landed on a hard-wood floor," Tina took Al's hand in hers and gently squeezed it. "Oh, Al, when I heard the crash and saw you there . . . so still . . . so . . . oh God. I saw you there and . . . I thought my heart would stop."

"Who are you?"

Al looked up at them, his wide eyes full of tears. Sam and Tina stared at each other for a few seconds.

"Oh my G--," Sam swallowed hard. "I. . . I don't think he's faking. He wouldn't be crying if he were faking it. Al, I'm Sam

. . . Sam Beckett, your best friend."

Al shot a confused glance at Sam and shook his head. "I'm sorry. I never saw you before."

"Sam, go get Doctor Streebing!" Tina's voice rose in panic. "He's down the hall. Get him now, damn it!"

At Tina's hysterical command, Sam darted out of the room. Tina looked at Al, and he stared blankly into her blue eyes. When she squeezed his hand harder, a sharp pain pierced through Al's broken finger like a spear, and he winced. Seeing the pained expression on his face, she loosened her grip, glancing at him with an apologetic look.

"Al. . . " she began, "Can't you remember anything? Do you know who I am?"

"No," he said with a weak grin. "But I'd sure like to get to know you better . . . if you know what I mean."

"I'm Tina. . . Tina Calavicci, your wife."

"No!" Al immediately regretted screaming when the pain in his head exploded, leaving a blanket of dizziness. He pulled his hand free and pressed the heels of his hands against his temples, hoping to relieve the intense pain. "I. . . I'm not married . . . not any more."

"Yes, you are," Tina burst out. "We just got married. . . "Her voice fell, "two weeks ago."

"That's not true. It can't be true. My wife . . . she's . . . she's gone . . . both of them. . . Beth and Anna are gone. I can't be mar-- no."

Tina reached for the night stand on the other side of Al's bed and produced a man's gold wedding band. "See," she said, "this is your wedding ring." She held it up next to hers. When Al stared at the wedding band and shook his head, Tina's face grew pale. "Al, please believe me."

"I just got a divorce, lady. Why would I be stupid enough to give up my freedom and marry a stranger three days later?"

"Oh, Honey, we've been dating for over six and a half years. You finally got up the nerve to propose two months ago.

"Stop it! Just stop it and give the ring back to your real husband.

"You're my real husband!"

"No," Al protested. "I saw him with you. He went to get the doctor.

"Sam? No, he's our friend . . . our friend."

Suddenly, voices were heard beyond the open door. Neither Tina nor Al could understand what they were saying. The dialogue became clearer as Sam and a gray-haired doctor, wearing a white lab coat, entered still engaged in conversation.

"You say he's been like this since he woke up?" Doctor Streebing approached Al's bed and casually rested a hand on the metal bed rail.

When Doctor Streebing shot a glance at Sam, he nodded, "Yeah."

Doctor Streebing turned back to face Al. "Well," he said cheerfully, "you gave us quite a scare, Admiral."

"Admiral?" Al gave the doctor a disoriented glance. "I'm an admiral?"

"Ya see what I mean?" Sam whispered to the physician.

"Sam," Tina added, "Al's lost the last twenty-four years of his life. He said he just broke up with someone named Anna and he . . . ."

"Anna . . . That was his second wife."

"And he thinks you're my husband."

"Oh, God, it's worse than I thought."

"Admiral," Doctor Streebing moved in close to examine the confused patient, "I want you to look straight ahead." He shone a pen light into his eyes. "That's it; just keep looking at the light . . . all right, you can relax now, Admiral." He directed his next glance toward Sam and Tina. "Well, his pupils are dilated--"

"A concussion," Sam interrupted.

"He took a pretty bad blow to the head, Doctor Beckett."

"But what about the memory loss?" Tina inquired. "How do you explain that, Doctor?"

"Well, Nurse Calavicci, he suffered a minor head trauma, and that generated the memory loss. Sometimes the condition is temporary . . . sometimes it's . . . ."

"Sometimes it's . . . permanent." Sam murmured under his breath. "Oh please don't let it be permanent."

Frustration and confusion seemed to over-power Al. He couldn't make sense of the conversation that was taking place. Again, he rubbed the knot that marked the blow that may have caused the dizzying disorientation; and again, he wanted to sit up. To avoid the head rush that had sent him back against the pillow before, he was more careful when he made the effort this time. He reached up with both hands, coiled his nine good fingers around the bed rail, and slowly hoisted himself up to a sitting position.

"Please," he begged, "Would someone please explain what's happening to me. Don't talk about me like I'm not even here . . . I . . . I want to know . . . please." His voice was as desperate as the look in his tear-filled eyes. "Please."

"Well . . . um . . ." Sam had a great deal of trouble finding the right words. "We . . . we think uh . . . We think the blow to your head may . . . may 'ave caused a loss of memory. It's been twenty-four years since your second wife divorced you."

"No," Al protested, "That . . . that's impossible. It can't be."

"Al, you've gotta believe me; it's true. Somehow you lost twenty-four years of your life. It's November 26, 2001; you're an ex-astronaut and a Navy admiral. Tina . . . Tina, the woman over there," Sam gestured to Tina, "she's your wife. You two just got married two weeks ago."

"No," Al argued, "I don't even know her!"

"Al, please try to remember," Tina blurted out. "We . . . we've known each other for six and a half years."

"Nooooooooo!"

"Tina, I think you're just confusing him all the more." Sam rested a warm, caring hand on her shoulder. "The worst thing you can do is upset an amnestic."

"Doctor Beckett is right. First he has to admit he has a problem before he can overcome it." Doctor Streebing added.

"Does anybody have a copy of today's paper?" Al broke into the conversation.

"There are some papers in the gift shop downstairs. I'll getchoo one." Tina put the wedding ring back on the night stand and headed out of the room.

"Why does she keep insisting that I'm her husband?"

"That's because you are, Buddy!" Sam tried to sound convincing, but his voice was distraught. "Didn't she show you this?" Sam picked up the ring and held it before his friend.

"That's yours. Come on, you're her husband and you know it. So you can just take this ring back."

"I can't," Sam presented his left hand to reveal his own wedding ring.

"Then it's his," Al pointed to the doctor.

"No, Admiral," the doctor disagreed, "I'm not married."

"Oh yeah?"

"I'll prove it to you." Doctor Streebing took the wedding band, placed it on his own tapered finger, and then held his hand out, his finger pointing down, and allowed the ring to slip off onto the floor.

Al stared with wide eyes as Sam retrieved the jewelry and reaching for his friend's hand, he replaced his class ring with the wedding ring. It was a perfect fit. A lump formed in Al's throat as he slipped the ring off. "Oh my God, it is mine . . . ."

Just then, Tina re-entered the room with the requested newspaper and handed it to Al. He glanced at the headlines that didn't seem to make any sense. When he looked for the date, his heart leapt into his throat.

"November 26, 2001. . . no . . . it can't be." Al tried to deny that the date in the paper was the real thing, but deep down he knew it was the truth. "No . . . Please, God . . . no." He then looked up at the three concerned faces. "I want a mirror. I want to see a mirror."

When Sam brought the injured man a small mirror, he held it before the trembling patient. Al, expecting to see a forty-three -year-old man's reflection, froze when he caught sight of the graying older man. Then he asked Sam to remove the mirror and show him his chart. All signs of color drained from his face as he read.

"My G-- . . . What's happened to me? I'm going gray . . . I'm an old man."

"You lost the last twenty-four years of your life, Buddy. You hitcher head and you can't remember anything past 1977. . . not yet anyway." Sam squeezed Al's shoulder. "Don't worry; you'll remember again . . . You have to."

"Wait a second," Al said with a quiver in his voice. "Are you trying to tell me I . . . I . . . have amnesia?"

Sam found himself at a loss for words. He desperately wanted to hold back the tears for Al and Tina's sake. After he swallowed a few times and took several deep breaths, he nodded and darted out of the room. He could hear his heart pound and feel his face flush with denial, sadness, and anger. Hot, salty tears poured from his eyes as he flopped into a chair and buried his face in his hands. There was nothing he could do to stop the sobs that shot through him like a bolt of lightning.

_Whenever I Quantum leaped, I found myself in situations I wasn't sure I could handle. I learned to think fast and act fast no matter how disoriented I was, but none of those leaps prepared me for the terror and feeling of helplessness I had when I saw Al in that hospital bed and found that he was suffering from a lot more than minor injuries._

When Sam raised his head, he saw Tina strolling down the corridor calling his name. He wiped the tears away with his sleeve and drew in another deep breath. There was no way he would let Tina see him in such a distraught state; he had to be strong for her.

"Sam," Tina sat on the arm of his chair. "Are you all right?"

"I'm sorry," he apologized with wide eyes and quivering lips. "You and Al need me, and the last thing you'd want is for me to fall apart on you like this."

"I just can't believe this is happening, Sam. It just happened so suddenly. One minute Al and I are happy . . . just married . . . bought a new house. Our lives couldn't get any better. Then the accident . . . . Oh, God . . . ." Tina's eyes were wide, blue pools of tears. "I . . . I was getting ready to come here on my regular shift, and Al said he was going to stay home, do some unpacking, and fix some little things here and there. I was just about to . . . walk out the door when I heard a . . . crash upstairs. At first I thought he dropped something. But it got so quiet." Tina cupped one hand over her mouth and drew several shallow breathes.

"Tina," Sam laid his hand on her back. "You don't have--"

"I have to tell somebody," she interrupted. "I ran upstairs and found a dead light bulb on the floor in the hall by the guest bedroom . . . and . . . ." She sniffled. "I walked in and found him there." She paused and took a deep breath. "I rode with him in the ambulance . . . all the time refusing to believe this was really happening. But when I saw that doctor and the orderly put Al on that gurney and take him away, I couldn't deny it any longer." She fell into Sam's arms and sobbed violently.

A feeling of helplessness flooded through Sam's body. He knew there was nothing he could do to take Tina's pain away.

"Oh, Sam," Tina managed to say. "This is all like a bad dream."

"He's going to be all right," was all Sam could say.

"All right!" She sat up and stared directly into Sam's concerned, hazel eyes. "You're all right if you skin your knee; you're all right when you burn your hand on the stove; but when you're going to the hospital in the back of an ambulance, you're not all right!" She sprang to her feet. "You tell me Sam, if he's going to be all right, then why doesn't he remember us?"

"Maybe it's temporary," Sam tried to convince himself as well as Tina. "I mean . . . um . . . maybe he'll recover in a few hours. He took . . . " With one hand cupped over his mouth, Sam took a deep breath. "He took a pretty bad knock to the head ya know; memory loss is common among patients with head injuries." Sam removed his hand and threw a glance at an unconvinced Tina. Refusing to acknowledge the truth, he swallowed the lump in his throat and muttered with a quiver in his voice, "He's, he's probably over -- over it by now. Maybe he'll get his memory back with a good night's sleep."

"Aw, Sam, do you really believe that?" Her doubting eyes peered into Sam's. "You're just saying that, aren't you?"

"Tina, he'll be fine!" he shot back with tears in his eyes. "If we give up on him, he'll give up on himself, and he'll never recover. We have to believe--"

"That's easy for you to say, Sam!" she interrupted, grabbing his arm. "Damn it, you didn't hear the crash. You didn't . . . didn't find him lying on the floor. Not knowing if he . . . ." Tina released her friend's arm and buried her face in her hands. "Oh, Sam," she said with panic in her voice, "he could have died. Or been paralyzed. Or -- have permanent brain damage--"

"But he isn't dead or paralyzed or--"

"He is!" Tina turned to Sam as a lion pounces on its prey. "He is brain damaged; he can't remember a damn thing."

"But he will!" Sam sprang from the chair, grabbed her by the shoulders, and shook her so hard her teeth snapped together and a rush of dizziness swirled through her head. "He will if we help him. It's up to us to see him through this, Tina. I know you're scared. So am I. But we can't let Al know that. If he knows we're confused and frightened, it'll make things harder on him." Sam pulled Tina into a hug and tried to soothe her.

When she finally calmed down, she and Sam headed back to Al's room. Suddenly, a voice full of anguish and pain echoed throughout the corridor.

"Al!" Sam darted into the room to find the admiral struggling to fight off Doctor Streebing, just as a weakling would fight off a towering bully. Tina stood in the doorway, unable to speak.

"Stop it! Leave me alone!" Al struggled for his freedom, but was still too weak to resist the doctor. "I don't need tests; I need my memory!"

"I have to check you out, Admiral. It's the only way I'll be able to find out what's wrong with you." Before Al could protest, he stuck a thermometer in Al's mouth. "Keep that under your tongue!" And before the frightened patient could remove the slender instrument from his mouth, the doctor pinned Al's arms to his sides. "Lie still, Admiral!"

Al didn't heed the doctor's command as he rolled his head from one side to the other and spat out the thermometer. "I don't have a fever," he wailed. "I have amnesia!" Doctor Streebing released Al's arms, and the injured man began to rub his pounding head. "You don't understand. This problem is inside me, and it won't show up on your damn machines."

"Doctor Streebing," Sam stepped in, "I think you should leave him alone now. I know him, and he can be pretty stubborn. You won't get any co-operation from him right now, I can tell you that."

"If you say so, Doctor Beckett," Streebing gave in under protest. "Nurse, get me a sedative," he ordered.

"I told you to leave him alone!" Sam shot an angry glance at the physician

"It's just to help him sleep. That sedative, Nurse Calavicci?"

"But if Al doesn't want--" Tina began.

"The sedative," Doctor Streebing interrupted with a clipped voice, "now!"

Reluctantly, Tina slipped out of the room and returned a minute later with a white pill and a glass of water. When Doctor Streebing tried to get Al to take the pill, the distraught amnesia patient snatched it and the glass and hurled them against the wall on the opposite side of the room. Broken glass fell to the floor and rested in the puddle of spilled water. "Noooooo!" Al cried out. "I don't want a sedative; I don't want to sleep; I want my memory back!"

When a voice over the P.A. system announced that visiting hours were over, Sam approached Al and rested a loving hand on the older man's shoulder. "It's okay, Buddy. Just relax and get some rest. I'll be here first thing in the morning. Everything will be fine."

"But how can I sleep knowing I can't . . . ."

"If you wanna get your memory back, you'll have to be fresh in the morning, all right?"

"Anna always said I was fresh at night."

"Albert," Sam snapped, "That's not funny!"

"One thing that I do remember is that I hate being called Albert."

"Look, all I'm saying is you'd better get some sleep. It's no use trying to drill a tired mind. If you're all groggy, it'll be even harder for you to regain your memory. I promise I'll be here in the morning and help you get through this."

"Well . . . okay," Al agreed, closing his eyes.

After patting Al's shoulder, Sam passed a quick glance Tina and Doctor Streebing's way. "Take care of him for me, Tina." He looked back at Al once more before disappearing through the doorway.


	2. Chapter 2

This whole afternoon was a nightmare, from Tina's hysterical phone call, to seeing an unconscious Al in that bed, to seeing th

_This whole afternoon was a nightmare, from Tina's hysterical phone call, to seeing an unconscious Al in that bed, to seeing the frightened look on his face when he realized there was something wrong with him. Part of me refused to believe my best friend has amnesia, but a more realistic part said that Al may have suffered some damage, and that all I can do now is try to help him regain the twenty-four years the accident had taken away._

The drive home seemed long and never-ending. Salty tears stung Sam's eyes and blurred his vision, making driving a very difficult task. Minutes hung like hours, and finally, he pulled into the driveway, paying no attention to the green garden hose lying unraveled across the concrete. Deep feelings of confusion, anger, pain, and helplessness plagued the physicist as he dragged his feet along the side walk, up the front steps, and through the front door.

Donna Elisi Beckett had just taken a package of frozen asparagus out of the freezer when she heard her husband enter the living room. She had been worried about Sam since she saw him leave the Project early that afternoon. All he had told her was that Tina called him, begging him to meet her at the hospital. She remembered a look of desperation and worry on his face when he left.

In the living room, Donna found Sam sitting in the rocker, staring blankly at the opposite wall, tears forming in his eyes.

"Sam?" Donna knelt before her husband, taking his hands in hers. "Honey, what is it?"

"It's . . . it's " Sam looked at her through flooded eyes. "Al. He fell off a step ladder, and he's in the hospital."

"Oh no. Is he all right?"

"No, he isn't. Donna -- he has partial amnesia and can't remember the last twenty-four years of his life. He got so scared when he realized there was something wrong. He doesn't remember Tina, or me, or the Project. Donna, Al didn't know that he was married again or that he's an admiral. He needed help and I didn't know what I could do for him. I never felt so helpless in all my life; I saw him just lie there and suffer and there wasn't a damn thing I could do to stop his suffering." He slapped an arm rest. "This can't be happening! My friends don't get amnesia; it only happens to people in books and world-premiere movies."

"Can they cure him -- or give him some therapy?"

"All we know is Al lost his memory due to a blow on the head. We don't know what kind of damage he suffered. He's so upset; he won't even let Doctor Streebing examine him. All he cares about is getting his memory back." He rose and started for the kitchen. With trembling hands, he swung the refrigerator door open, retrieved a soda can; and in an attempt to open it, cut his finger on the tab. "Damn it," he muttered, sticking the injured finger in his mouth.

"I'll get you a band-aid," Donna offered.

"No, Honey, it's okay," he said as he carefully examined the cut. With a quivering hand, he raised the can to his lips, only to drop it on the floor. "This isn't happening," He muttered.

"Sam, let me get that for you."

"I'm perfectly capable of cleaning up my own messes!"

"Oh, of course."

Sam crouched over the puddle of spilled Sprite and ran a damp sponge over the sticky mess. Tears blurred his vision, and his hands continued to shake. When he found that he was only spreading the puddle, he slammed his hand down on the sponge, making an even bigger mess.

"Let me clean it up," Donna repeated her offer.

Sam rose to his feet, but his knees were shaking so much he had to grab the back of a chair to steady himself. After Donna mopped up the carbonated puddle, she looked at Sam and settled a warm hand on his back.

"He was a whole different person, Donna. The man in the hospital was not the head-strong, sarcastic, girl-watching Al Calavicci I know. He . . . was so vulnerable, so afraid . . . You should have seen him. It's like I didn't know him," He paused for a moment, thinking back. "And I know what he's going through. I know how hard it is to live with a memory loss . . . always wondering who you are, who your family is, what you can do . . . . All those years leaping around with half a memory. I know what it's like; I lived it too. I know exactly what Al must be going through right now. When you have amnesia, you're afraid; you feel empty and alone; and all you want is to find out who you are, and remember something . . . It doesn't matter if the flash is good or bad. All you ever want is to remember something . . . anything without anyone's help." Sam pulled out the chair that was supporting him and slumped down. "There has to be something I can do for him. He's my best friend. I wouldn't wish a Swiss-cheese memory on my enemies."

"There isn't anything you can do right now, Sam," Donna stood behind him, rubbing his shoulders.

"There's gotta be something! There's gotta be something!" Sam pounded the kitchen table with his fist. "I can't just sit by, Donna. If I sat around and did nothing on a leap, I'd still be stuck in the past. I'd be living someone else's life forever. Helping people is in my blood now. I couldn't live with myself if I'd just stand around doing nothing, when there's something I could be doing. If I can help people I don't know, I can save the man I've known and loved for twenty-one years."

"Save him? He's already had the accident. All you can do for him now is--"

"I can save him," Sam interrupted. "I can leap into Al and keep him from falling off the step ladder. "

"What?"

"I can go to the Project tomorrow, set the Accelerator for this morning, and leap."

"No!" Donna shot back, glaring at Sam, her eyes wide and her features colored with surprise. "You can't leap; we're still working out the bugs. You shouldn't 'ave leaped the first time."

"I have to try," he protested.

"No, Sam!"

"I'm doing it for Al!"

"What about your promise to him?"

"What?"

"When we finally retrieved you last July, Al made you promise not to leap until we're ready," Donna sat next to Sam and met his eyes. "If you leap, Al would pop up in the Waiting Room and eventually find out what's going on. He wouldn't have amnesia, but he'd be very upset because you went back on your word and would be lost in time again. You can't do that to him."

"And I can't leave him like this."

"You can't leap, Sam," Donna argued.

"Donna," he snarled.

"There's no guarantee that you'll leap into Al even if you do set the date. You could wind up in someone else's life miles from here."

"That's a chance I'll have to take."

"Your mother's right. You are more stubborn than your father!"

"If it wasn't for my being stubborn, Project Quantum Leap would not exist . . .And let me tell you something, Donna. If it wasn't Al. If it was your best friend, you'd be begging me to leap back and put everything right!" Sam rose and was about to leave the room when Donna sprang from her seat and grabbed him.

"You'll stay away from that Accelerator, Sam Beckett," Donna screamed shaking him by the shoulders. "Even if I have to tie you to a chair, you will stay away from the Accelerator!"

"You'd do that!" Sam challenged, sure that it was an empty threat.

Donna fired a long, serious stare at her husband. "There's some rope in the utility room, and I know how to tie a square knot."

"You couldn't keep me like that forever," Sam continued to challenge, "Sooner or later you'd have to let me go."

"Why are we arguing about this?"

"Because you don't want me to leap back and save Al from a lot of pain."

"You don't even know if his condition is permanent. He could be over it in a few days, or a few weeks, or--"

". . . or not at all."

"You don't know that. You can't do anything about it tonight."

"I can't . . . can't stop thinking about him."

"I know," Donna said as she hugged him close; and he looked solemnly into her big, brown eyes. For a few seconds, they held each other at arms length; then Sam drew back and started for the stairs.

When Sam awoke the next morning, he noticed the neon-blue display on the alarm clock read 9:45 a m, and that the alarm was never set. After muttering several choice words to himself, he leaped out of bed, showered, and dressed quickly. As though he was consumed by a sudden burst of energy, Sam raced down the stairs, ran out the front door, and jumped into his car. The motor wailed, and the tires screamed as he tore out of the driveway and down the street.

Fast food restaurants, hotels, and stores whizzed by him, as he sped down Main Street. The whole time a queasy, squirming uneasiness settled in his stomach. Every red light was a barrier placed between him and the hospitalized man he knew was desperately in need of a friend.

Finally, Sam reached the hospital; and, after he found a parking space, he locked his car and set the alarm. As if propelled by lightning, the physicist hurried into the building. The elevator seemed to inch its way to the third floor, and when Sam arrived at Al's room, he saw a tired, red-eyed Tina emerge. She threw a terrified yet relieved look at Sam.

"How is he, Tina?"

"They . . . they ran some tests on him this morning to see . . . to see if he has -- brain damage."

"Have the results come back yet?"

"No. I wish they would, and I -- wish they wouldn't. I want to know how Al is, but, at the same time, I don't think I could bear to hear Doctor Streebing tell me that the tests show that Al has brain damage." Sadness, fear, and pain sent a monsoon of tears to her bloodshot eyes. "You know, Sam, this reminds me of a book I read about this woman who had an accident and lost her memory. She had permanent brain damage and was in the hospital for months."

"You mean STRANGER IN MY BE-- No, Tina, It's nothing like that. Al's memory loss isn't anything like what that lady in the book suffered. When she woke up, it was like she was a baby again. If I'm not mistaken, she didn't even remember her own name. When Al woke up, he did know his name; he just thought he was twenty-four years younger. I think he'll be fine once we get him home. When I saw him yesterday, outside of the intense fear, he looked all right to me. He is all right except for his memory loss."

"Damn it, Sam, how the hell can you be so calm at a time like this! Don'choo care about him?"

Tina's words echoed in Sam's head, and he felt his face burn. His heart pounded like a tom-tom, and he found it difficult to breathe normally. Once he regained his composure, he directed a penetrating stare into the nurse's half closed eyes. "How can you say that I don't care!" he shot back, trying not to cry. "This isn't easy for me either, you know. It's getting to me too. Ever since I left the hospital last night, I've been a basket-case. I've fallen apart more times than I want to admit. I was starting to drive my own wife crazy over this. As I told Donna last night, I see Al every time I close my eyes; I can't seem to shake it off. You're not the only one who's losing it, Tina! So don't you ever say I don't care about Al."

"I'm sorry, Sam, I didn't know," Tina fell into her friend's arms, "It's ju-- . . .It's just that we were only married for two weeks. Two weeks. And now he doesn't even know me. He married me because he loved me. Now he doesn't. Oh, God, he doesn't even know if he loves me, or that I love him," she burst into tears.

"Sshhhhh, it's okay," Sam hushed. "I know it'll be hard, but we've got to be there to see him through this. Al is depending on us, Tina. We can't let him down and let our anger and denial get the better of us."

The sound of footsteps echoed through the corridor, gradually growing louder. Then the sound came to an abrupt stop. Sam turned to find Doctor Streebing, a dead-pan look on his face, holding some papers.

"Those are the test results, aren't they, Doctor," Tina inquired, gesturing to the papers in his hand.

He nodded. "Yes, and you'll be happy to know the tests are all negative."

"How soon can Al go home, Doctor Streebing," Sam asked.

"Not right away," was the doctor's reply.

"Why? You just said he doesn't have brain damage. Why does he need to stay here; Outside of the memory loss, I think he's all right."

"I'm concerned about his memory loss, Doctor Beckett. I'd like to keep the admiral under observation. I don't think he's in any condition to leave. He needs to be where he can be watched closely; it's for his own good."

"Will you stop it," Sam cut Dr Streebing off. "You want to baby-sit him, not help him recover."

"Doctor Beckett, as a physician, you should know as well as I do that a patient shouldn't be released if--"

"Doctor Streebing," Sam interrupted again, directing a stare Streebing's way, " . . .You know I don't believe you! All you think about is the patient. They're more than just warm bodies lying in beds; they're people, and deserve to be treated as people. Al sure as hell won't get his memory back confined to an adult crib. He needs to be treated like the man he is if he is to go back to his old self again. Amnestics should be in their own environment, wear their own clothes, see their own friends, and handle their personal possessions. I can assure you his chances for recovery would be better if he were in a house, not in an institution."

"Are you an authority on amnesia cases, Doctor Beckett?"

"Give me a little credit. I know more about amnesia than you think. I've had experience with this sort of thing; and I have found that amnesia can be curable if given time . . . time and patience. If you keep Al here, and feed him medication all the time, I can almost guarantee he won't make any progress."

"He needs medical supervision."

"He'll get it if he goes home. Tina's a registered nurse, I'm a doctor, and we both have time off. If you release Al, we won't let him out of our sight for a second."

"I really don't think--"

I'll take full responsibility, Doctor Streebing. Trust me; he'll be much better off in a home environment surrounded by people who love him, than in an institution with people who only care about getting the job done. If it'll make you feel better, I'll make sure he takes it easy for the first few days."

"Well, we'll see," Streebing mumbled, reluctantly giving in. "But I want to keep him here for at least one more day. If all goes well, I may let him go tomorrow. But remember, Doctor Beckett, you would be assuming full responsibility for the admiral's care."

"You have my word," Sam promised as he turned to enter Al's room.

As he slowly approached Al's bed and settled in the chair next to the wounded man, his stomach turned at the sight of his older friend. Al's tear-stained face, fearful brown eyes, and lost expression were enough to bring tears to Sam's eyes. "Al . . . Al . . . It's me, Sam . . . . Feeling better today?" he asked, blinking back the salty drops that turned the room into a blur.

". . . Headache's not so bad. But I still can't -- can't remember anything. I hate this. Why can't I remember?"

"Take it easy. The tests came back and you don't have brain damage. You might be going home tomorrow --" Sam held up a warning hand, "But, that's if you can prove to that doctor that you are well enough to leave."

"Home. I . . . I'd love to go home. I don't like it here. Shots. Tests. I don't think they give a damn about what I'm going through. All I want is to remember again. And nobody gives a da--"

"I do," Sam said in earnest, tears filling his eyes. "Tina does. Once we get you home, we're gonna help you and we won't stop trying until your memory comes back."

"But how can you? You don't have my mind. You don't know what I'm supposed to remember."

"We know you. I've known you for twenty-one years. I can help you regain those years because I lived through 'em with you. I have some of the same memories, but reliving the old days won't make it happen overnight. It'll take time for your memory to come back; this is gonna take time and patience. And Tina and I want to help you, Al. You're gonna have to work at it too; you can get over this, but only if you really want to . . . and only if you believe in yourself. Fight this thing, Al. Show me you can. Show Doctor Streebing. Show everybody that Albert Calavicci isn't the type of man who lets a condition, a temporary condition like this, get him down."

"You think I'll get it all back?"

As the younger man passed a box of tissues to his friend, whose eyes were wide and full of tears, he answered softly, "I hope so, Al, I hope so."

_Talking to Al, I felt about as awkward as a twelve-year-old on his first boy-girl date. Al had no memory of me, and I wasn't quite sure what to say or do. The man who once saw me as his best friend now saw me as a complete stranger. After an hour of exchanging small talk, I found we were getting nowhere fast. But I wasn't the only one feeling out of place; Al also seemed very uncomfortable. I didn't want to leave him, but I couldn't bear to see that pained expression on his face and talk to him about the weather, TV shows, or hobbies._

"Al . . . I hate to cut this visit short, but I have a lot of stuff to take care of today."

"Do you have to?" Al stared at the younger man with urgency in his eyes.

After Sam nodded, Al grabbed his arm and drew him close, clinging tightly to Sam as a frightened child clings to a protective parent.

"It's all right," Sam assured the fearful patient, "I'm gonna arrange to stay with you and Tina for a while. Until you get over this." Al released Sam from the smothering hug. "I have to tell them at work that I'll be taking time off to help you. I have to tell Donna," Sam paused realizing that Al didn't remember Donna, "my wife . . . that I'll be staying with you for a while. Then I've gotta go home and pack. I'd like to get settled at your place tonight, so I can come for you first thing in the morning." Sam took a few steps back and added, "Now all you have to do is show that uptight, know-it-all Doctor Streebing that you'll be well enough to go home."

Al smiled weakly, "Believe me, I wanna go home." His voice dropped, "I don't remember my home . . . but anything's better than staying here."

"Just hang in there, all right? Twenty-four hours from now you'll be sitting in your own living room," Sam assured his friend before leaving the room.

Sam had just stepped into the corridor when he heard argumentive voices coming from Doctor Streebing's office.

"I don't care, Doctor! Al is not only my husband; he's a patient that I'm responsible for. I'm being paid to take care of him as well as other patients. I admit I'm emotionally involved with this, but who wouldn't be? There's no way you can make me stop caring for him!" Tina came stomping out of the office, her face burning a bright red.

"Tina, what's going on?" Sam stepped in front of the angry nurse, grabbed her arms, and stared sternly into her eyes. "I heard you yelling; what happened?"

"He says," Her anger roared within her. "He says he wants to assign someone else to take care of Al -- because he thinks I'm too attached! He told me that getting involved with a patient is unprofessional and intolerable!"

"Sometimes it's true, but in Al's case, it would be criminal to leave him in the hands of strangers who don't really care." Sam noticed the dark circles under Tina's bloodshot eyes. Exhaustion crossed her face; and Sam could tell that she had gotten very little, if any, sleep. "Tina, you look like you could drop at any minute. Maybe you should take some time off--"

"Sam--"

"Wait, you didn't let me finish. You should take some time off because you're gonna wear yourself out. And what good would you be doing Al then?"

"I can't leave him. I can't leave him here with someone who doesn't love him. Who'll take care of him; who'll sit with him when he gets upset? Al needs me!"

"And he'll need you even more once we get him home. Now, I told him to do as the doctor and nurses say and he'll be released. If all goes well and Al does as he's told, he'll be home tomorrow and we'll never have to worry about Streebing again." Tina nodded, and Sam continued, "First I'm gonna stop off at the Project and my place, then I'll take you home. Just remember, it's only one day -- less than one day."

11


	3. Chapter 3

Sam and Tina slowly made their way down the dimly lit corridors of the Project's main building. The sound of their footsteps bounced off the tile floors and concrete walls. When they stopped in front of the door labeled CONTROL ROOM, the physicist inserted a plastic card into a slot located to the left of the door. The door immediately opened.

"Gooshie?" Sam stepped into the large, bright room, "is Donna here?"

"You just missed her, Sam. She went to lunch a minute ago. She's either in the cafeteria, or she's eating a brown bagger in her office."

"Thanks. Uh, Gooshie, is the Accelerator ready for use yet?"

"No," the technician answered, punching keys on an elaborate computer. "Several programs, including Retrieval and Imaging, still aren't functioning properly. Ziggy says if you try to leap now there's a 12.7 chance of a successful retrieval and only a 7.5 chance of survival."

"Then that's a risk I'll have to take," Sam said firmly.

"You can't be serious, Sam," Gooshie protested.

"Damn right I am. I don't know if Donna told you but . . . Al had an accident and is suffering from partial amnesia. I figure if I can leap into Al before he had his accident and prevent him from falling off that ladder -- save him from the pain and fear--"

"It's impossible!" Gooshie could not believe what he was hearing. "You're not really gonna--"

"Listen, Gooshie," Sam interrupted, "My best friend is lying in a hospital bed, unable to remember the last twenty-four years! The doctor isn't doing him a damn bit of good; he wants to keep Al so he can baby-sit him, not help him! I'm the only one who can really help him. If I can prevent the accident, Al would have no reason to be in the hospital; he would be here where he belongs."

"You know you aren't to leap until Ziggy approves; it's too dangerous."

"I did it before and I'll do it again!"

Gooshie reached for the white telephone sitting on a desk next to the large computer. Shaking the receiver in his left hand, he snorted, "So help me, Sam, if you set foot near that Accelerator, I'll call Security and have you sedated and locked in your quarters."

After he shot an angry glance at Gooshie, Sam turned and marched out of the room. He stomped down the hall so quickly that Tina had a hard time keeping up with him. His heart seemed to be lodged in his throat, and every beat was an explosion. Beads of sweat ran down his face like large tear drops. When he saw Donna was not in the cafeteria, he ran down to the stairwell, scrambled up two flights, and raced down the hall until he came to a door bearing Donna's name plaque.

"Donna?" Sam poked his head into the cubical.

"Hi, Sweetheart," she said after swallowing a bite of her sandwich. "How's Al doing?"

"He's doing better. Physically that is. He's not suffering from brain damage or severe injuries. He, uh, he still can't remember anything, and he's still pretty upset. But, I would be, too, if I woke up and found myself in a strange place unable to remember a good part of my life. God, it reminds me of what I went through on my first leap."

"Do they know how long he'll be in the hospital? I mean, when will he be able to come home and get on with his life?"

"That's what I want to talk to you about, Donna. Doctor Streebing said he wasn't gonna release him, and when I asked him why, he would not give me a good reason. He was like a little kid who says 'because' when mommy asks why he did something bad." He shook his head and then continued. "Anyway, he agreed to discharge Al if I assumed full responsibility for his care. God willing, he should be home tomorrow. I'm gonna have to stay with him for a while. The only way he's gonna recover is to start leading a normal life again; and the only way to do that is to get him out of the damn hospital!" Sam turned to face the window and absently began to crack his knuckles. His heart felt as though it were sinking like an anchor in rough waters. "I hated leaving him today."

Tina approached the two of them, and rested a hand on Sam's back. "Sam, you can't keep feeling guilty every time you have to leave Al."

"I know, I know," Sam mumbled, slamming a hand against the marble window sill. "I still hate leaving him, though."

"Sam," Donna threw a glance at her husband, before plunging a crinkly, brown, paper bag into an overflowing waste basket. "There's no need to torture yourself. You can't stay with him every minute of the day."

Before an argument could erupt, Tina stepped into the conversation, changing the subject. "Donna, is it okay with you if Sam stays at our house for a little while?"

"Of course, Tina, it's fine with me."

Sam dug his front teeth into his bottom lip and ran his fingers through his soft, sandy-brown hair. "Um . . . Donna, do you think you, Gooshie, and Verbina can handle things around here while I'm gone?"

"Everything'll be fine, Honey. You take all the time you need with Al. Lord knows you wouldn't be able to keep your mind on the Project until Al starts to recover anyway." Passing a concerned glance Tina's way, Donna squeezed her friend's shoulder and asked in a quiet mothering voice, "Tina, would you like to have dinner with us and spend the night?"

"No thanks," she politely turned down the dark haired woman's offer.

"I just thought you'd like some company tonight."

"No, Donna, I'm fine . . . really. Once I get home, I'll probably fall asleep on the couch and not get up until tomorrow morning." Tina's eyes flooded with salty tear drops. Her tear-stained face ached and felt as though it would pop right off her head at any moment.

"Tina," Donna continued, "I really wish you would stay with us tonight. I hate for you to go home and spend the night alone, feeling like this. Just remember, we're here for you, Tina," she took Tina's hand and looked at the blonde with sympathetic eyes.

"I know," she said, pulling her hand free. "I . . . I . . . Oh, Donna . . . " Tina wrapped her arms around her friend's neck and cried.

"That's right, Tina," Donna hushed, tears forming in her own eyes, "let it out."

The small woman's face burned, and her sobs caused her to shudder several times. Her entire body shook in Donna's arms; and when she finally calmed down and looked at Donna, she appeared as a fuzzy blur hidden by stinging tears.

As Sam watched the two women, a rolling, queasy feeling filled his stomach. A rigid shiver traced his spine, causing his whole body to tremble like a wet cat in front of an air conditioner. As if it wasn't bad enough knowing Al was in an institutional environment, lost, afraid, alone, and under the care of an indifferent doctor; he had to watch Tina go through the same anger, devastation, confusion, and pain that was swallowing him.

4


	4. Chapter 4

That night was an eternity. Donna's frozen TV dinners seemed to be the last thing Sam and Tina wanted. They had no taste, and the time it took to eat them seemed more like enough time to consume a seven-course meal. Tina went to bed early and cried herself to sleep; and Sam stayed up half the night studying his old medical and psychology books while drinking several cups of hot cocoa. Patches of neon-yellow marked sections that the physicist/ doctor thought would be most helpful once his ailing friend returned home. By 3:15, Sam could no longer concentrate on his work. The void of sleep was trying feverishly to overtake him. Leaving his materials scattered all over the kitchen table, Sam turned out the lights and crept upstairs and into bed. After pulling the covers up to his chin, he drifted into a quiet, calming world of sleep.

This seemingly brief void was shattered by the pulsing tones of Sam's alarm clock. He stretched and tumbled out of bed. He then woke Tina; and after they showered and consumed a make-shift breakfast, they dressed and jumped into his car.

The drive to the hospital dragged more slowly than it did the day before. Every time Sam's car hit a bump or came to a stop, Tina and Sam could hear his suitcase bouncing around in the back seat. Neither person said a single word during that long, agonizing fifteen minute drive.

As they slowly strode down the hospital's corridor, Sam felt anger gnaw at him, anger for the doctor who was the only person who seemed to stand in the way of Al's release and possibly his recovery. The pair was met by Doctor Streebing outside his office.

"Morning, Doctor Beckett," Doctor Streebing greeted in a monotone.

"Doctor Streebing," Sam returned the greeting frostily. He swallowed the seething anger that flared in his throat before continuing. "Is Al ready to go home yet?"

"I was just on my way to see him." The lab coat clad physician abruptly turned his back to Sam and Tina, and started toward Al's room; the two of them close behind.

When they entered the room, they were greeted by an empty bed. The emptiness and silence were shattered by the whirling, bubbling sound of a toilet flushing; and Al emerged from the bathroom hobbling on his good leg. When he turned to face his visitors, Al found three pairs of eyes directly focused on him.

"Al, how ya doing this morning?" Sam asked, concern reflected in his eyes as well as his voice.

A heavy feeling made its way from Al's heart to the top of his head and evaporated. "I'm okay, but . . . ." Al's head grew heavy again, and his dark eyes met his bare feet, "I still -- I don't think I'm remembering anything. Nothing's coming back to me."

"Don't worry, Honey, you'll start to feel better once we get you home," Tina assured her husband as she approached him and placed her soft hands on his shoulders. "Your memory will come back before you know it. It won't be long before everything is back to normal, and it'll be as if the accident never happened."

She tried to sound confident and sure, but traces of doubt ran across her face and colored her eyes; and these traces Al could see easily.

"I'm sorry, Nurse Calavicci," Dr . Streebing intervened, "but I really don't think I should send him home. A man in his condition must be kept under observation."

"Doctor Streebing," Sam snapped, "Yesterday, you and I agreed that if Al was all right and if I assumed full responsibility, I could take him home."

"I seriously doubt whether I should release him and turn his care over to a man who is too emotionally attached!" Crisp, sharp tones chilled Doctor Streebing's voice.

Doctor," Sam's words cut through the air and penetrated Streebing's ears. "We made a deal; Al looks fine to me. I mean," he gestured to Al, "look at him. He's standing; he can walk; and he certainly can function in society. Al is well enough to go, and I expect you to honor our agreement."

"Doctor Beckett, I--"

Before he could restrain himself, Sam charged toward the doctor who was responsible for the sudden flare of anger. He grabbed him by the lapels and slammed him against the wall. "I don't want to hear any more!" he roared, "You hear me Streebing!"

"Sam, stop it!" Tina screamed grabbing Sam by the arms and trying to tear the physicist away. "Don't you dare hit him!" She pulled with all her strength. The backward thrust forced Sam to release Streebing's lapels, and he and Tina tumbled to the floor. As they struggled to their feet, Tina used every drop of energy to drag the angry scientist out of the room. "We'll be back. I think Sam needs to calm down and have a cup of coffee," she said before disappearing through the doorway.

"I think he's had too much caffeine," Al commented before he realized no one was paying any attention to him.

In the personnel lounge, Tina found she had to force the coffee down Sam's throat. "I can't believe you did that, Sam," she began. "Do you want to make everything worse?"

"Ya know, I don't think he's ever gonna release Al. He -- I think he just said that he would so I'd shut up and go away," Sam burst out, shoving the half-full cup of coffee away, almost knocking it from Tina's hand. He told me I could take Al home today, but now he wants to keep him here!"

"Don'tchoo realize getting angry and hitting will only make it harder to get Al out? If you keep yelling and fighting with Doctor Streebing, you could be making sure Al stays in here for a very long time; and Streebing might not let you or me come near him. If you really want to help Al, you'll have to stay calm and try to work it out without getting angry or losing your head."

"We wouldn't have this problem if I was Al's doc--" Immediately, the wheels began to turn. Gusts of inspiration and relief swept over Sam like a cool breeze on a hot summer day. "Wait a second . . . wait a second. I can't believe I didn't think of this in the first place." He started to pace, summing up his thoughts and voicing them out loud. "When Al was brought to the hospital, he was unconscious. He couldn't sit up on that gurney and tell them who his doctor was. So, the doctor on hand, Doctor Streebing, signed him in and made sure his injuries were treated." He ceased his repetitive motion and turned to face Tina. "Streebing may have the authority to release Al, but so does Al's personal physician!"

"Sam, it'll never work. You can't pass yourself off as Al's doctor. Doctor Streebing and the other nurses know you as Al's friend and not his doctor."

"Yeah, but nobody recognizes Verbina Beeks. She can pass herself off as Al's personal doctor, check him over, and order his release."

"I don't know if this'll work, Sam."

"It has to work. Verbina is Al's only hope," he countered solemnly.

Sam immediately dashed for the nearest phone and contacted Doctor Beeks, the Project psychiatrist, filling her in on everything that had been going on.

"Al needs to get out of here if he is to resume a normal life and overcome this memory loss. I know I can help him get most if not all of it back . . . . No, he doesn't have brain damage, just a nasty blow to the head . . . . Physically, he seems to be fine. His finger and ankle are nothing to worry about. I'm only concerned with getting him home, so Tina and I can do something about his memory. Al needs his personal doctor to order his release so he can go home and get on with his life . . . . All right . . . . I'll see you in a half hour . . . Okay . . . . Goodbye."

Doctor Beeks didn't arrive soon enough for Sam and Tina, who sat waiting in Al's room. Sam's eyes wandered back and forth, from Al to the clock on the wall, and then back to Al. Tina sat on the edge of the bed massaging Al's tense shoulders.

"Where is she?" Sam's voice reflected restlessness.

"Sam, she'll be here," Tina sighed.

Al broke into the conversation, "Who? Who are you talking about?"

"Your personal physician's coming. She'll hopefully get you out of here," Sam answered.

"She?" Al's eyes popped open and a look of surprise colored his features. "My doctor . . . uh . . . Doctor Donnalley . . . is a man."

"You changed doctors back in '93. Now you see Doctor Verbina Beeks," Sam improvised. "I'll go see if she's here yet." Sam gave Al and Tina one last look before he exited.

No sooner did he enter the hallway, when the elevator doors opened to reveal a tall, attractive woman with a chocolate-colored complexion and an air of intelligence.

"Verbina, thank God you're here," Sam let out a sigh of relief. "Al's room is this way." He led the way, only to be summarily halted by Doctor Streebing just before re-entering the admiral's temporary domain.

"Excuse me," Streebing said coldly, "what have we here?"

"Doctor, my name is Verbina Beeks, and I'm Admiral Calavicci's personal physician." Doctor Beeks flashed her AMA membership card before him. "I have come to see my patient."

"If you are his doctor, why did it take you two days to come and see the admiral?"

"I was called out of town, but Doctor Beckett was smart enough to leave a message with my service. I got here as soon as I could." Her voice was forceful, and her words, full of conviction. "Now, I can stand here and let you interrogate me, or you can let me go in there and have a look at the admiral. Which is it going to be, Doctor?"

Doctor Streebing stalked off in a huff, his face red and his eyes bulging. Sam and Doctor Beeks exchanged glances before entering Al's room.

"Hello, Al," Doctor Beeks' voice was now soft and friendly, "I know you don't remember me. I'm Verbina Beeks, your doctor."

"Oh?" A Cheshire cat grin crossed the patient's face. "Now I see why I changed doctors."

"Al," Sam scolded, "cut it out. She's here to help you, not to listen to your cheesy remarks!"

"I'm sorry," he apologized, looking at the two doctors with wide eyes. He was like a child who used sad puppy-dog eyes in hopes of avoiding parental discipline. "Sam said you could get me out of here?"

Doctor Beeks nodded. "How are you feeling today?"

"How am I feeling!" he erupted, "What the hell kind of stupid question is that! I can't remember the last twenty-four years of my life; I woke up and found out I'm an old man; and nobody gives a damn! How would you feel if it happened to you!"

"Al, Honey, calm down," Tina gasped.

Ashamed, he hung his head. "I . . . I . . . God, why can't this all be just a bad dream? I would wake up and . . . and everything would make sense again."

"But it's not a dream, Al," Sam's words were kind, yet firm. "It's real and we have to accept it. This isn't some kind of brainless sitcom where the amnesia victim just wakes up one day and remembers everything again, or cracks his head on the kitchen cabinets and it's as if he never lost his memory. All we can do for you now is try to bring those missing years back. You can get over this, but only if you really want to. It's all up to you."

"I would kill to get it back," Al made a tremendous effort to hold back his tears. "God, how I want it back. I feel like there's a big hole in my life . . . a blank space.

"That's why we're all here, Al, to help you get out of the hospital, resume a normal life, and recover," Doctor Beeks said as she sat on the chair next to the bed and rested a cold, yet gentle hand on his arm. "Now let me take a look at you."

"They already ran their stupid tests on me, and I don't have brain damage."

"Just a quick look," she assured him. After getting a nod from Al, she retrieved a pen light from her bag and studied his dark, brown eyes. "Any headaches?"

"When I first woke up two days ago, but not now."

"Do you hurt anywhere?"

"A little when I touch the lump . . . It's kinda like when you touch a bruise."

"Do you feel dizzy at all?"

"I'm missing twenty-four years! I don't have headaches or dizziness da--" Realizing he shouldn't yell at the doctor, Al stopped himself; after all, she was his only ticket home. ". . . I'm sorry . . . I . . . ."

"It's all right, Al, I know this must be very frustrating for you." Doctor Beeks studied his chart, which was at the foot of the bed. "You know, I really don't see any reason to keep you in the hospital. If Doctor Streebing had half a brain, he'd know that by looking at you and by studying this chart. You don't seem to have any symptoms, and there's no reason you can't go home today."

"It would be a mistake, Doctor Beeks," Dr Streebing suddenly appeared in the doorway. "That man is not ready for discharge."

"I don't agree," Dr Beeks' face was like stone. "Extra time in the hospital would only add to his bill. You'd only be wasting your time and Al's. If releasing him would be a mistake; it will be my mistake, my problem. Tina, get me the papers necessary for Al's dismissal," she ordered.

With a nod, she acknowledged the doctor's command and quickly exited.

"He stays here!"

"You heard Doctor Beeks," Sam snarled at the obstinate physician. "Al's going home."

"He's still not fully recovered." Streebing stepped in and became a human barrier separating Al and Sam.

This barrier was nothing Sam couldn't handle. Boiling anger heated his body and reddened his face. "Doctor Streebing, I'm usually a patient man, but you're pushing me beyond my limit. Now get out of my way," he growled. Doctor Streebing shook his head, unwilling to step aside. As if controlled by a magnetic force Sam's eyes bulged and his right hand curled into the fist that barreled into the physician's jaw.

The doctor tumbled to the floor, too stunned to react. When he rose to his feet again, he directed a cold stare Sam's way and snorted, "I wouldn't count on the admiral's regaining his memory if I were you . . . not at his age." He stomped out, cursing, as Tina returned with the blank release forms.

"Al, why don'tcha get dressed while we fill out all this stuff," Sam suggested as he retrieved a bright red shirt, silver jacket, navy blue pants, and high top sneakers from the closet.

"These are mine?" Al asked as he eyed the curious, yet strangely attractive garments. After seeing Sam's nod, he took the outfit into the bathroom and quickly shed his hospital gown. The white, plastic wrist band was not so easily discarded. "Damn, I'll have to cut it off later," he muttered to himself. The clumsy splint on his left ring finger turned the simple task of getting dressed into a chore. After he succeeded in this minor challenge, Al re-emerged to see Sam and Doctor Beeks filling out the release papers, and Tina walking in with a wheelchair.

"Okay, Al, " Sam said to the older man, "all you have to do now is skim over these and sign them; then your free to go."

Al carefully studied the papers. "Great, I'm history!" he announced as he scribbled his signature on the dotted line.

"Al," Doctor Beeks reminded, holding up one hand, "you're being released into my care, and I'm turning that responsibility over to Sam. Not only is he a medical doctor; he knows you inside and out, and he may be your best chance at recovering your memory."

Al nodded in agreement and was about to walk out when his friend's firm hand clamped his shoulder. "Al, you have to . . . " Sam gestured to the wheelchair. "It's the rules."

"Do I have to sit in that stupid thing?" Al complained. "I may not be able to remember the last twenty-four years, but I sure as hell can walk."

"I don't want you to overdo it on that ankle . . . " Then Sam decided to change his approach. "All right, look. You don't have to use it; you can put'cher gown back on, climb into bed, and stay here with people like Doctor Streebing who don't care about you or whether or not you'll ever remember anything. The choice is yours."

"I'll sit in the stupid thing," Al sighed.

"Tina, why don'tcha go take care of the release forms. I'll meetcha in the parking lot," Sam instructed as he helped Al into the wheelchair and rolled him into the corridor.

Tina gathered all the pages and was about to leave when she remembered her husband's wedding ring was still sitting on the night stand. She snatched the piece of jewelry and tucked it into her pocket before exiting.

"Thank you, Verbina," An expression of sincere gratitude colored Sam's face. "I owe you one."

"Me too," Al added.

"I'm glad to help." Doctor Beeks gently squeezed the admiral's hand. ""Now you take care of yourself and trust Sam to know what he's doing. He'll get you through this even if it kills him."

"Thanks." Al's half smile was the last thing Verbina Beeks saw before Sam turned the wheelchair toward the elevator. When the doors slid open, the three of them boarded the waiting car and descended to the ground floor.

Incredible pangs of disorientation and tension were knives that seemed to stab Al from every direction as he saw his unfamiliar surroundings flash by. Nothing made sense to him; in fact, he became more unsettled with every foreign building, street, sign, or billboard. Without any memory of the past twenty-four years, he felt as though he was suddenly thrust into another dimension; here he was in a strange world, a different time--a new century for that matter. These feelings strengthened as Sam pulled the car into the driveway in front of the Calaviccis' new home.

"Well, here we are," the younger man announced, bringing the car to a stop.

"Where are we?" Al's inquiry was tinted with a quivering tone.

"We're home now, Honey," Tina's eyes met those of her husband.

"You're home, Al."

After Sam deactivated his car's engine, he and Tina climbed out of the vehicle. While Sam was helping his injured friend out of the back seat, Tina retrieved her temporary 'guest's' suitcase.

"Are you all right? Can you walk on it?" Sam asked, gesturing to Al's bad ankle.

Yeah, "Al droned.

"Are you sh--"

"I'm fine!" Al bellowed as he lunged forward freeing himself from the strong arm that served as a means of physical support. "I can walk into my own house!" He abruptly turned and clumsily limped up to the front door. Once Tina unlocked the door, they all filed inside.

"Sam, would you like me to take this up for you?" Tina asked, holding up Sam's single piece of luggage. "I also have to make your bed."

"I can do that later, Tina," Sam politely countered.

"No, you're a guest, and guests shouldn't have to make their own beds," Tina insisted. "You stay here with Al; I won't be long."

Before Sam could finish the argument, Tina disappeared with his bag. He stood, staring down at the brown carpeted staircase for a second before wandering into the kitchen. He found Al there, rummaging through the drawers in search of something.

"Where are they!" Al whined out-loud.

"What'cha looking for?" Sam inquired.

"Scissors," he answered shortly as he fumbled through a messy drawer full of miscellaneous objects. "Ah, found 'em." He slammed the drawer back into place and tried to grasp the right-handed instrument in his awkward, splint-bound left hand. It was obvious to Sam what Al's objective was.

"Do you want some help?" he offered.

"I can do it," Al responded. Just as he opened the blades and held them to his hospital bracelet, the sheers fell to the floor. "Damn!" he grunted.

"Al, let me cut it for you. You can't hold those things, not with that finger."

"I have a memory problem; I'm not an invalid!" Al exploded, angry and insulted by the unwanted special treatment Sam seemed to volunteer. "It's bad enough I don't have a whole memory; but you don't have to treat me like I'm not a whole man! You can just stop walking on your tippy-toes around me; and, for God's sake, don't get all over-protective and treat me like I'm made of glass. I came home in a car . . . not in a crate padded with Styrofoam peanuts! I'm perfectly capable of cutting some cheepy little piece of plastic."

Al's second attempt to break the bracelet resulted in a half- inch flesh wound; and when Sam heard his friend mutter several four-letter words under his breath, he repeated his offer to help. Al slammed the scissors onto the counter; and just as Sam was about to snip the white band, a terrified scream sent their hearts into their throats.

"Tina!" Al jerked his wrist free from Sam's grip and tried to run up the staircase. His wounded ankle proved quite painful, hindering his pace considerably. Refusing to let a sore ankle keep him from the frightened woman, he hobbled to the top of the stairs to find linens strewn all over the hall floor and Tina sobbing hysterically. Sam, who had beaten him to her side, was trying to calm her down.

"What's the matter, Tina?" He stood with his hands on her shoulders and his eyes aimed directly into hers. "What is it?"

"It's . . ." Once she caught sight of her husband standing at the top of the steps, she shook her head and shrugged, "it's nothing."

Sam realized he would get no answers from Tina as long as Al was standing there. Looking at the newly released patient, he could tell the man was in more agony than he was letting on -- his red face, pained expression, and uneven stance were clear give-aways.

"Al," Sam directed a deadly serious face his friend's way, "you shouldn't be standing; that ankle can only take so much. C'mon, let me help you downstairs. You've gotta rest that ankle before you make it worse."

"There you go again . . . on tippy-toes again! Anyway, Tina's my wife; I may not remember her, but I'm still supposed to be here for her."

"As a doctor responsible for your care, I'm ordering you to stay off that ankle!" Sam barked. Before Al could protest, he wrapped one arm around his waist and escorted the injured admiral downstairs. He helped him onto the couch in the den and took a look at the limb. He touched it gingerly, causing Al to wince. "There, ya see," his voice was tinged with an 'I told you so' tone, "You're gonna have to keep it elevated. I'll getcha something to take care of that swelling." Sam disappeared into the kitchen and soon returned with a home-made ice pack. He then eased his friend into a prone position, propped Al's bad leg up on a cushion, and placed the ice bag on it. "Just lie still and keep that on for about . . . oh, fifteen or twenty minutes."

"But what about Tina?"

"It's okay. I'll get her to come down once she pulls herself together. You've gotta remember she's under a lot of stress right now."

Al shrugged weakly, and Sam raced upstairs again. Sitting on the floor amidst the scattered pillows, sheets, and blankets, Tina was still trying to collect herself.

"Tina?" Sam reached out a helping hand and pulled her to her feet. "Do you wanna talk? If you're worried about Al hearing you, don't be; he's downstairs."

"I can't go in there, Sam," Tina unloaded. "I can't. That's where I found him . . ." She couldn't hold back the tears. "I saw him just lying there. He wasn't moving, and I got so scared. It seems every time I see a doorway I expect to see Al on the floor. I keep thinking . . . if I left . . . if I just said 'Oh well, he dropped something' . . . ." Desperate for someone to hold her, Tina fell into Sam's arms and clung tightly to him. After a few sobs, she recovered her speech. "Oh, God, Sam, what if I left and didn't find him? How long would he have been lying there, unconscious? What would have happened if he woke up and I wasn't there? He wouldn't remember the house, and he might have gotten up and started to explore. He wouldn't know where he was and he'd get scared. Sam, Al . . . coulda panicked, fallen down the stairs . . . and made himself worse. "

Tina, stop it!" Sam snapped, drawing back and holding her at arms-length, "Stop torturing yourself like this. You found Al; he didn't wake up alone in the house; and he is gonna be all right! We've got a lot to do without borrowing trouble. Our top priority is to help him get his memory and his life back on track. We sure as hell don't need to keep thinking about what could've gone wrong!" Hot tears stung Sam's eyes before flowing down his cheeks. "Al needs us now. He needs us to be strong and supportive and to believe in him . . . to believe that he can get better. Al's depending on us, Tina."

"I know. It's just -- I saw the room again and the step ladder's still there. It keeps reminding me . . . ."

"Then let me take care of the step ladder and make the bed. You know, Al's down there, and he's worried about you. Why don'tcha go to him; he's in the den resting his ankle." After a weak smile, Sam squeezed Tina's arms gently. As he began to gather the fallen bedding, he continued softly, "Hey, Al needs a little help getting his hospital bracelet off. It's okay; I'll take care of everything up here."

13


	5. Chapter 5

_Two weeks went by, and Al's memory wasn't coming back on its own. I asked Donna to stop by with my old books so I could look up possible ways to jog his memory; but so far, none of them worked. Then Tina suggested we sit down with some old photo albums. I told her that only works on TV and that we should try a more conventional approach. After all, this wasn't some soap opera; it was real, and it would take more than a good writer to help Al regain his memory._

The last signs of color flickered and disappeared from the night sky long before Sam, Al, and Tina finished their supper. Hardly a word was spoken before they rose to clear the table.

Al discarded his still bountiful plate onto the counter and, without a word, slipped into the den to be alone.

"I'm worried about him, Sam." Tina deposited her plate in the kitchen sink. "He won't eat or sleep; he always slips away and hides; he doesn't seem to want to do too much of anything anymore."

"He has a lot on his mind, Tina. He still feels very much alone and lost. It's hard to live with a memory loss . . . . Trust me, I know. Nothing we tried has worked, and he's getting discouraged."

"I still think we should try showing him some old photos. I know you don't think it'll work, but I think it's worth a try," Tina insisted.

"Tina, I really doubt--"

"Just try it, Sam. None of your methods worked, so let me try mine. Please."

"Oh, all right . . . but don't getcher hopes up. It may work; but then again, it may not," he warned.

After the dishes were rinsed and loaded into the dishwasher, they entered the den, where Al was settled on one end of the couch, listening to the radio playing "Yesterday" by the Beatles. When he heard the verse that started: "Suddenly, I'm not half the man I used to be . . ." the admiral snatched up the appliance and, with an angry hand, silenced the broadcast by dropping the radio to the floor.

Flames of emotion shot through him, and he was tempted to throw everything that wasn't nailed down across the room. Instead, he clutched one of the cushions and squeezed the maroon pillow as if to choke the life out of an enemy.

"Damn it!" he shouted, slamming the victimized object against the floor. "Everywhere I turn there's something that reminds me that I have amnesia! I just wanna' get my memory back and forget this whole thing!"

"Al," Sam said with a brotherly tone, "Believe me, we're trying to help, so you can put all this behind you and get on with your life." The scientist perched himself on the chair to the left of the sofa while Tina produced a thick, midnight-blue binder from the bookshelf behind the TV set.

"Al," Tina said as she sat down next to her husband. "Maybe looking at some pictures will bring something back." She opened the album, but it was too dim for any of them to see the photos clearly. "Uh, Al, couldjoo' turn on that lamp behind you please; we need some more light in here."

Al turned to switch on the lamp; but instead of flooding the den with light, the bulb gave off a brief, blinding flash. He then removed the shade and unscrewed the dead bulb. "I'll get another one," he said as he rose and started for the basement.

Dull thuds marked Al's uneven footfalls as he made his way down to the utility room. He was reaching for a new bulb when his eyes fell upon the step ladder standing in the corner. The prickly sensation of stabbing icicles traced his spine and dispersed throughout his body. Overtaken with terror, he stepped back several paces, his eyes fixed on the aluminum source of horror.

"Oh, God!" he began to scream, "Ah, geez! Oh man, oh maaaaaan!"

"Al!" Sam called scrambling down the stairway. "What is it? What's wrong! You think you'd found a dead guy down here!"

"It's that step ladder. It's giving me the willies big time. I took one look at it and got this creepy-crawly, scary feeling. It's worse than finding dead guys! Oh, G-- why the hell am I afraid of a stupid step ladder?"

"Well, Al, I think, uh, I think it's because . . . ." Sam tried to dodge telling Al about his fall, but at the same time, felt he owed Al the truth. "Do you remember when you woke up in the hospital that day and asked us how you got hurt?" Seeing Al's nod, Sam continued, "Tina told you that you fell off a step ladder while changing a light bulb. We think that was the cause of your amnesia."

"Do . . . do you think I'm remembering something?" Al's voice and features were colored with wonder and hope. "Am I actually remembering!"

"Al, I," Sam hesitated, not wanting to burst his friend's bubble and send him back into a smothering feeling of disappointment, "I'm not sure. You could be remembering, but there's a good chance that this weird feeling is subconscious and could have nothing to do with memory. Did you see flashes of yourself losing your balance or falling off the ladder?"

"No, I just got the creepy feeling. I didn't have any flashes or anything like that," Al murmured quietly, chagrin shadowing his once hopeful face. "Guess I didn't remember anything after all."

"But you did get a weird feeling," Sam reassured, his words reflected optimism. "It may not be a memory, but it's a start!

"I don't know, Sam, I . . . ."

"It's better than nothing," Sam reminded him, "Some amnestics don't even experience what you just did. You have a chance, Al. And that's more than I can say for other amnesia victims. You have to keep working at it. As a medical doctor, I know nobody can make a full or partial recovery by just giving up. I know you can beat this, Pal."

"I wouldn't be too sure about that," Al moped.

"I would! Give yourself a little credit; you are ca--"

"Then how come I'm not getting better," Al demanded, "I've been home for a couple of weeks now, and I'm no better off than I was in the hospital!"

"Because this isn't Jack-In-The-Box. You can't go to the drive-through window and say 'I'd like one memory, twenty-four years worth, to go'. I think it'll take more than a few weeks to regain twenty-four years, don'tchoo?" Tugging gently on his arm, Sam directed the older man to the stairway and, in a soft, brotherly voice, he continued, "C'mon, maybe going through Tina's photo album will help. It's worth a shot."

After the men returned to the den and replaced the light bulb, the three sat with the album spread across Tina's lap and poured over the glossy pictures mounted on manila-colored pages. None of the pictures rang a bell with the admiral, who was growing more frustrated with every foreign photo.

". . . and here we are in Vegas." Tina pointed to one of the photos. "You were always such a ham in front of the camera--"

"Stop it!" Al yelled as he leapt to his feet, "It's not working! I don't remember, and you can't make me remember! I'm sorry, but this just isn't working!" The angry man turned and stormed out of the room and Sam and Tina could hear the lopsided sound of his footsteps thump THUMPing up the staircase.

"You don't have to say 'I told you so", Sam," Tina blurted.

"I wasn't going to. I know you were only trying to help him."

"I can't take it anymore, Sam; he's not getting any better. He's the same as he was when he was still in the hospital . . . and I'm beginning to doubt he'll ever get over this."

"I have a feeling that with time--"

"Don't you tell me about giving it some time, Sam Beckett! You didn't get married only to lose your husband after only two wee--"

"You didn't lose him!" Sam interrupted loudly.

"He's different now! He's not the Al who loves me; he's another Al who doesn't even know me. How would you like it if Donna didn't love you anymore?"

"He loves you Tina; he just doesn't know it right now. As I told you before, Al has a lot on his mind. I know he's changed, but that's because of the amnesia. All he wants right now is for everything to come back; and when it doesn't, it really upsets him. I know from my own past experience with a memory loss how frustrating it is to try to retrieve a missing memory. On my first leap, I was cracking my brain open trying to remember my own name. In Al's mind, he was suddenly in this weird world surrounded by people he sees as strangers. It can be very frightening to find yourself in a time where nothing . . . not even your own mirror reflection . . . is the way you remember it. How wouldjoo feel if you were in that kind of a situation? Where everything makes sense to everyone except you?"

"I suppose I'd be the same way," Tina admitted.

"I think we'd better leave him alone right now and let him cool off," Sam said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and drawing her close. "Don't worry, Tina, someday something will happen, and Al will start to remember again. We have to keep trying."


	6. Chapter 6

**JANUARY 9, 2002**

Nearly a month-and-a-half had passed since the accident, and Al still hadn't regained any of his lost memories. Doctor Streebing's continuous ribbing about how Al should have remained under hospital care prompted Tina to switch to mornings and transfer to the maternity ward. Sam returned to his own home once Al's physical injuries were healed and he had regained his strength, but his visits to the Calaviccis' were quite frequent.

Although Al was learning to cope with his condition, he still felt an empty void gnawing away at him. The high tech world of the twenty-first century was a strange one to the admiral. Foreign devices such as VCR's, home computers, microwaves, and phone answering machines were items that seemed to belong in a science fiction movie; but they were appliances that Al had to learn to live with nevertheless. With every week he grew more frustrated and irritable; and at the same time, he felt incomplete and unsure of himself and his recovery.

"Good morning, Al," Tina yawned after she pushed the snooze bar on the digital alarm clock.

"Yeah, yeah," Al croaked, still buried under the covers, "Same as any other morning. Nothing really great about it."

"Al," Tina sighed, "for God's sake, lighten up."

"Lighten up!" he grumped as he sprang into a seated position. "Could you lighten up after a month-and-a-half of living an incomplete life! I feel like I'm only half-a-person, Tina. Every morning it's the same thing . . . I walk into that bathroom and tell myself that I'll get my memory back. 'Okay, Al, it'll happen today. You'll start to remember everything again. This whole thing'll be over before you know it.' . . . . I say that in front of the mirror every single morning, and nothing ever happens! If this was your problem couldjoo' lighten up? My memory's not getting better, and this whole thing -- "Al clutched his pillow and fired it across the room.

Dumbstruck, Tina just stood at the foot of the bed, her eyes fixed on Al's. Once the initial shock wore off, she slipped into the bathroom to brush her teeth and answer nature's call. No sooner did the bathroom door click shut, when he tumbled out of bed and started to pace, talking aloud to himself.

"I'm minus twenty-four years and she wants me to lighten up. Easy for her to say. Her memory doesn't stop somewhere in 1977. Who's kidding who? It's not coming back. "Absently, Al picked up a rocking horse music box that was sitting on Tina's dresser. "Frosty the Snowman will be taking tropical vacations before I'll be able to remember something. No matter how hard I try nothing. If you ask me, it's all a lost cause."

Al stopped dead in his tracks as his eyes fell upon the reflection in the full length mirror. It was through the mirror image that he saw the music box cradled in his hands. His fingers slowly traced the small gold and white object; and when he turned it over, Al read the black lettering on the gold base: SOMEWHERE OUT THERE. Al flicked a tiny, gold lever which sent a flat knob into a slow, circular motion. The music box then began to plink out a strange, yet lovely tune.

The room rolled into round blurs as tears formed and spilled from the entranced admiral's brown eyes. Tina emerged from the bathroom only to find her husband standing in the middle of the bedroom, frozen in his tracks. He didn't seem to blink or even breathe.

"Al . . . Honey . . . What is it? What's wrong?"

Seeming to be under a spell, Al stepped back several paces until he backed into the edge of the bed. He slumped down onto the firm mattress and, without looking up, he stuttered, "It . . . it's th-this . . . song. There's s-something ab-b-about it . . . ."

"Do you remember it?" Tina whispered as she sat and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

"No, but, I f-- I feel . . . . There's something -- Something happened, but I can't remember what it is. That song . . . It means something to me, but how can it if I never heard it before? What the hell is happening here!"

"That song, it's called _Somewhere Out There. _It's a love song, and it was playing on the radio the night you asked me to marry you. You told me you loved me . . . . Well, anyway, you bought that as a wedding gift for me because it plays our song, Al. Our song."

"I can't remember, Tina," Al feverishly fought the urge to sob. "I can't remember it . . . I . . . I . . . can't even remember how much I lo--" The lump of emotion caused him to choke on the words. He tossed the music box onto Tina's pillow; and as the upsetting gift continued to play a muffled song, Al cried out in anguish, "God, Tina, I wanna' love you! You're my wife, and I still don't really know you! I don't remember anything about you!"

Tina drew Al into a tight hug, "It's okay, Honey," she found herself in tears as well. "I understand. I know how hard--"

"No you don't!" he protested as he drew back. "You don't know anything about it. My whole life changed when I woke up last Novem--"

"And mine hasn't? Is that what you're saying?"

"You didn't wake up in a hospital room with complete strangers looking down at you. Strangers who say they're your wife and best friend. You weren't the one who all of a sudden found out that almost a quarter-of-a-century went by and that you grew old practically overnight. And you don't have to sit around every day wondering if you'll ever remember those twenty-four years. You couldn't possibly understand what it's like, Tina. It didn't happen to you!"

Al immediately regretted blowing up at Tina; after all, she was only trying to show that she indeed cared. Unable to face her, he shuffled slowly to the window. The quiet neighborhood beyond the pane swirled into swimming splotches that grew into one sea of watery emptiness. As the hot, salty tears spilled from the man's eyes, blurry images of the street and other houses appeared.

"I'm sorry. I . . . ."

"It's okay . . . . You're right. There's no way I could understand what it's like. I don't have a memory loss. All I know is it must be very hard for you to have to live like this," Tina said quietly. "I guess I'd snap if it was happening to me, too." She picked up the music box which was now trying desperately to plink out one more chorus before the key would stop its counter- clockwise motion, flicked the lever back to its original position, and returned the precious item to its place on the dresser. "Honey, why don'tcha wash up and brush your teeth, and I'll go down and drop some pop tarts into the toaster."

Without a word, the admiral dragged his feet across the carpet and disappeared into the bathroom. Tina exited the room once she saw him close the door behind him.

The warm, soft, blueberry pop tarts seemed to hit the spot. Al and Tina weren't quite finished with their delicious, hand-held meal, when the telephone's loud ring echoed throughout the kitchen.

""Hello . . . " Tina grabbed the receiver after swallowing a bite of breakfast. "Hi, Sam,"

"Oh no, not him again," Al muttered to himself. He realized the physicist only wanted to help him recover, but he was tired of the younger man's frequent visits and constant attempts to retrieve the past.

"He's right here," Tina continued. "Do you want to talk to him?" Ignoring the man's 'no' gesture, she handed him the receiver.

"Yeah, hello . . . uh . . . I don't know . . . . I can't; I got computer class then . . . . After 1:00?" The admiral drew in a deep breath and released a heavy sigh. "Okay, okay I'll go. I'll ask Tina to drop me off at the junior college and you can meet me after I get out o' class . . . . See ya then . . . . Bye." Al slammed the phone back on its cradle. "Damn it!" he barked.

"What's the matter?"

"He wants me to meet him for lunch."

"So?"

"Aw wake up, Tina. Every time I turn around, there's Sam. He just won't leave me alone. The guy's worse than a little lost puppy. Ya know, I'm surprised he hasn't handcuffed us together."

"He's only trying to be there for you, Al. Maybe he's trying too hard, but personally I think I'd rather have a friend who cares too much than to have to deal with uncaring people like Streebing who don't give a flying-- You know -- He really does care, Al. He cares about you, and he won't give up on anything or anyone he loves. Just bear with him, okay?"

The dimly lit, noisy eatery was very crowded. The buzz of what sounded like a thousand conversations and the smell of fried foods filled the room. Perched on two stools near the juke box, Sam and Al carried on a casual conversation while waiting for service.

"You know, Sam, I didn't think you were the type of guy who would eat in a place like this. It seems more like my kind of thing; don'tcha think?"

"Al, we used to come here for lunch every day. We, uh, we ate here because we could never stand the cafeteria food at the Project--"

"The Project?"

"Yeah, we have been working on a top secret science project together since the late '80's."

"You mean the Starbright Project?"

"You remember the Starbright Project?" Sam's eyes popped wide open and filled with hope.

Al shook his head. "NO, I uh, I found some old notebooks while I was unpacking some boxes in the basement. They had dymo labels that read STARBRIGHT PROJECT, and all the pages had a bunch o' stuff in my handwriting . . . . Wait, if you're not talking about Starbright, then what are you talking about?"

"Our project -- Project Quantum Leap."

"What kinda project is that?"

"Aw geez. I'd rather explain it to you once you're more familiar with the technology of the past twenty-some-odd years. It's so complicated; I'd have a hard time trying to explain it to anybody."

Before another word was spoken, a middle-aged, red-headed waitress suddenly appeared on the other side of the lunch counter.

"Good afternoon, Doctor Beckett, what'll you have today?" she asked, setting two glasses of ice water before her customers.

"Just some clam chowder," the scientist replied.

"And you, Admiral, the usual?"

"The usual?" confusion reflected in the older man's eyes. He didn't know what to make of the woman's inquiry. "Whatter you talking about?"

"Your usual order, Admiral . . . One tuna melt a bowl of vegetable soup, and coffee with two Sweet'n Low's."

"What the hell is Sweet'n Low?" Al questioned.

"What's Sweet'n-- . . . Are you feeling all right?"

"I uh, I don't remember . . . ." Al found it difficult to say the words. Dealing with his amnesia was hard enough for him; but talking to people--strangers--about it was pure torture. He wanted to be Al Calavicci the man; not poor Al, the amnesia victim.

"You can't remember?" The server's eyes showed pity disguised as genuine concern. Turning to Sam, she whispered, "Does he have Alzheimer's Disease?"

"No he doesn't!" Sam hissed. "He had an accident last November and is suffering from partial amnesia. He doesn't like to talk about it, so let's just drop it. We came here to eat, not to tell all of his problems to the world." Sam turned to face his friend, who seemed to be drowning in deep feelings of embarrassment and shame. Laying a warm hand on the older man's shoulder, he asked quietly, "Al, do you want the tuna melt and soup?"

"I lost my appetite," he said blankly before dismounting the stool and stalking outside.

"I gotta go. Never mind the chowder." Sam leaped from his seat and darted after Al, too concerned about the admiral to think of anything else.

Leaning against the scientist's car, the admiral fought the urge to show any emotion. Every feeling imaginable flared inside him. When he saw Sam coming, he abruptly turned his back to the younger man.

"Al, are you okay?"

"Why don'tcha just stick a sign on my back saying I HAVE AMNESIA. Or wouldjoo' rather put it on the 10:00 news!" Al griped angrily. "Do you have to tell the whole world I . . . ." Al slammed a hand down on the car's hood.

"I was just trying to --" Sam began.

"To tell her that I'm some poor old man who--"

"Al! What is wrong with you?"

Al ignored the younger man's question and stomped around to the passenger side of the vehicle. "Wouldjoo unlock the damn door; I'd like to get out o' here and go home, all right!" he snapped.

Once they were on the road, the scientist questioned his friend as to his sudden change of behavior. "Come on, Al, won'tcha tell me what's going on here. I mean, you were fine; then you turned on me like a snake. What happened?"

"Nothing happened. Nothing at all."

"Look, you may not know me all that well, but I know you inside and out; and I can tell when you're keeping something from me. Now are you gonna talk to me, or am I gonna have to drill you . . . and don't think I won't."

"Listen Kid, you may have been able to get answers from the Al who remembers you, but I'm not that Al anymore. I'm different, and you're gonna have to accept it."

"Something happened to you at home or in class, didn't it?" Sam prodded.

"No."

"Something bad musta happened, and you're taking it out on me."

"Nothing happened!" Al growled.

"There's something you're not telling me."

"Will you shut up!"

". . . And I'm gonna find out what it is, so there's no use keeping quiet. Now are you gonna tell me what's going on?"

"I thought," Al confessed, "I thought I was gonna remember something, but nothing . . . . It's like those dreams you have, and when you wake up, you wanna tell someone about it, but all you remember is that you had a dream. But you can't, for the life of you, remember what the dream was about."

"What were you remembering, Al?" Sam asked his voice gentle and calm. "Can you tell me what it was?"

Al looked down at his feet and answered quietly, "This morning I . . . heard this song on Tina's music box. The song was so -- I don't know. When it was playing, I got this weird, deja vu feeling. There was something about the song. I wanted to remember it, but I couldn't. I'm beginning to think I'll never get my whole memory back." His voice fell on his last sentence.

"Don't say that. Your flashback is proof that you can recover. The trouble is you're expecting it to happen overnight. It won't be easy, and it won't be instant. The flash may not be a real memory, but it's something. You have to have patience and hang in there." A sudden flare of inspiration swept over Sam, prompting him to change the subject. "While you were unpacking, didjoo run across any old diaries, papers, documents . . . ."

"Just those Starbright notes."

"Well, I want you to go through some more boxes and study any personal notes, papers, letters . . . anything in your handwriting or any official documents on you. It would also be a good idea if you started to keep a journal. Write about the amnesia, how you feel on a day-to-day basis, what you dream about at night. If you try all that something's bound to jog you."

"It'll never work," Al disagreed.

"You'll never know unless you try," Sam countered. "It wouldn't hurt."

Al decided to take Sam's advice and try to retrieve memories via letters and personal documents. After he and Tina cleared away the supper dishes and wiped the table clean, the amnestic admiral spread an entire shoe box full of letters across the flat, wood grain surface and immersed himself in his studies. An hour of unsuccessful attempts to call back the past planted seeds of anger and frustration in the man's heart.

"What does he know," Al complained under his breath, "this isn't working either. How does he think I'll get my memory back by reading this stuff? I tell you, Tina, I don't think Sam knows what he's talking about."

"Al, you just started. You can't expect it all to come back after reading a few old letters; it's gonna take more time than that." Tina sighed, helping herself to a light beer.

"Be honest, Tina, do you really think this'll work? It would be the same as trying to remember something that happened in a history book before you were even born. These letters are facts that don't really mean anything to me. I feel like the last twenty-four years are a homework assignment or some kind of script that I have to memorize, but they don't really mean anything to me. I can read up on this junk and walk around appearing to remember, but I won't really be remembering. Just parroting stuff I read," Al said, his voice tinged with a 'get real' tone. "It's exactly like a homework assignment -- 'Okay, Al, your job is to be this guy who has been married five times and has worked on a project called Starbright. You made friends with some scientist named Sam Beckett and are working on some Quantum Leap thing with him. And oh, by the way, you're married again'." "Al?" Tina perked up when she heard the words 'Quantum Leap'. Her face brightened like a well-trimmed Christmas tree during the holiday season, and her excitement came in the form of exploding heart beats, rapid breath, and sweaty palms. "Do you remember Project Quantum Leap?"

Al ran a hand across his forehead and sighed, "Believe me, Tina; I would be bouncing off the walls if I remembered something."

"Then . . . how?"

"Sam said something about it at lunch. He wouldn't tell me what it was about. All he said was that we worked together on it." Al carelessly gathered the letters and stuffed them back into the shoe box, and he reached for the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue that was resting on the counter by the phone book. "I know he thinks this is supposed to help, but I don't think it'll do any good." His eyes widened at the sight of the scantily clad forms portrayed on the pages. "Yumola!" he said in awe.

"Al, I think you should keep trying. Maybe these letters didn't do anything, but there are more boxes in the basement that you haven't gone through," Tina suggested.

"I tell you it won't work," he objected, his face buried in the magazine which now possessed his undivided attention. "Anyway, a guy can slip a disk hauling those boxes up here, and I don't really wanna go back into the hospital."

"You can ask Sam to come over and help," Tina advised.

"Yeah yeah, sure," Al absently answered, still lost in his fantasy world of bathing suit models. "Oh wooowwwwwwww," he panted staring at the woman featured on page 25. "Does she have an incredible pair of beach balls or what?"

Disgusted, Tina snatched the magazine away and said with disapproval, "I think you need your memory more than those two-dimensional, little tramps in a bathing suit magazine! I think you'd better call Sam and have him help you with those boxes, so you can look at something more important . . . like papers that could help you remember something."

"Oh, all right," Al grunted under protest. He rose from his seat, grabbed the phone, and angrily punched its buttons. "Hello, Donna, is Sam there . . . . Hello, Sam . . . . Yeah, I was wondering if you could come over tomorrow and help me lug some boxes out of the basement . . . . Okay . . . . See ya then. . . . Thanks. Bye." Al replaced the receiver and passed an 'Are you happy now' glare into his wife's eyes. He then grabbed a cigar, stabbed it into his mouth, and lit it before stomping into the den.


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning was a dark, cold, rainy one. Al sat at the table drinking a third cup of coffee when the doorbell chimed letting him know there was a visitor at the door. He set down his beverage and got up to let his company in.

"Hi, Al," Sam greeted entering the front hall and depositing his red and white golf umbrella onto the tile floor.

"Hi," Al returned the greeting. "There's a box in the basement with a label saying AL'S CD'S, NOTEBOOKS AND PERSONAL ITEMS. I got it to the bottom of the stairs this morning, but there's no way I can lift it by myself without killing my back."

After Sam removed his raincoat and left it on the radiator to dry, the two started for the basement and managed to bring the heavy, awkward, cardboard carton up the narrow staircase and into the kitchen. Just as they dropped it onto the floor, the doorbell rang again.

"Wouldjoo get that for me, Sam?" Al asked breaking the transparent tape with a car key.

"Sure," the physicist nodded and stepped into the hallway.

When Al broke the seal that held the items prisoner he found a curious, colorful, flashing object no larger than a calculator. He began to play with the keys, and the strange, little instrument gave off several loud squeaks, buzzes, and beeps. Different colored lights flickered on and off as certain buttons were punched, and the gizmo seemed to astound the admiral.

"Hey, Al, there's a cub scout selling candy bars!" Sam called from the front hall. "Do you want any?"

"Buy two for me, Sam; I'll pay you back for them!" Al called to the younger man, before poking a cigar into his mouth.

"Now don't spend it all in one place." Sam smiled at the young boy before stepping back and closing the door. With four candy bars in hand, he started back to the kitchen and was amazed at what he saw. There was Al, puffing on a cigar, and punching buttons on the small, blinking gadget that had been a part of his life for the past six years. The machine wailed several times as Al gave it a series of whacks on its side with the heel of his right hand. All the while, a haunted expression masked his face.

"Two for you and two for me," Sam said as he laid the junk food onto the counter. "It'll set you back about five dollars."

"This is really weird, Sam. I've never seen anything like this, and I'm standing here punching out buttons as if I had been using it my whole life." He held the object before the physicist. "What is this thing?"

"It's . . . ," Sam hesitated, realizing he could no longer avoid telling his friend about Project Quantum Leap. "It's your hand-link to Ziggy. It has to do with our Project."

"You mean Quantum Leap?"

"Yes. You had to remain in touch with Ziggy almost twenty-four hours a day--"

"Ziggy?" This conversation was getting too weird for Al.

"That's the computer that runs the Project."

"Why did I have to stay in touch with it all the time?"

"Because . . . . Oh boy, how am I gonna explain this?" Sam paused for a minute, then continued, "Remember on New Year's Eve when you and Tina came over and Donna rented the entire _Back To The Future_ trilogy?"

"Yeah," Al nodded.

"Well you know how Marty was traveling in time . . . and sometimes he put right what went wrong or was about to go wrong . Um, that's what we do at Project Quantum Leap. It's a time travel experiment."

"Yeah, right," Al said in disbelief as he cast the hand-link aside. "Do you use a DeLorian, too?"

"No, I use what we call the Accelerator. It's a small booth that, if you step inside, you can be sent backward or forward within your own lifetime. I tried it back in 1995 and spent six years bouncing around in time. It took a long time to bring me back to the present because the Retrieval Program was not working properly. I spent all that time leaping into other people, reliving pieces of their lives and putting right what went wrong in their lives."

"Hold it, nobody travels in time, Sam; and they sure as hell can't relive other people's lives. Where didjoo get this story from? A bad sci-fi book?"

"I swear to you, Al, it's the truth. The whole time I was leaping around, you were there to feed me the info I needed to make my missions successful. As Project Observer, it was your job to tell me what I was there to do. You appeared to me as a hologram that only I could see and hear."

"Only you could see and hear?"

"Your image was tuned into my neurons and masons, and that's why I was the only one who could receive your signal. Sometimes little kids and animals could see you too, but that has to do with alpha waves. Anyway, you'd be in a room called the Imaging Chamber where you made contact with me. You were a hologram to me and my surroundings, and I appeared as one to you."

"Ya know, Sam, you should write a book."

"What will it take to convince you--"

"Oh, gimme a break! You expect me to believe that you can travel in time? Well, Smarty, why don'tchoo travel back in time and prevent my accident!" Al raved.

"God, Al, that's all I've wanted to do since the day you woke up in the hospital--"

"Well, if you really can do it, why don'tchoo?"

"It's because Ziggy and the other people at the Project all think it would be too dangerous, and the Retrieval Program still isn't working right--"

"Ah-ha!" Al interrupted again, "You can't travel in time. I knew it; you're making it all up . . . just like everything else you ever said to me!"

"What?" Sam could not believe what he was hearing.

"You made it all up. How do I know you're really my best friend! For all I know, you could be some nozzle who wants to take advantage of my memory loss and try to make me buy into your fantasies!"

"No, Al, I'm not. I'm just trying to--"

"Trying to see what a fool I can be, falling for some time travel story. You cooked the whole damn thing up, Sam Beckett, if that's your real name."

"Oh come on, Al!"

"I don't understand why you even went out of your way for me all this time. Why the hell do you care so much about me and my memory problem?"

"Because you're my best friend, and I understand what you're going through."

"B.S. You don't have the faintest idea what it's like to wake up one day and find yourself in a different time and place where nothing makes sense! You don't know what it's like to brush your teeth with your back to the mirror because every time you see that reflection, it reminds you that you aren't who you think you are!"

"Believe me, I do," Sam pleaded. "I know exactly what it's like to live with partial amnesia."

"Oh yeah," Al demanded. "How!

"Because, damn it, it happened to me!" Sam snarled through clinched teeth. "I had to live with a memory loss for over six years . . . . And the ironic thing is you were the one who helped me through it."

"Right, and I'm the man in the moon!" Al disagreed loudly.

"It's the truth!" Sam cried. "I wouldn't lie to you!"

"Yes you would! You would lie to me, and you are!" he bellowed, smashing the blue and white china sugar bowl to the floor. "You're saying you had amnesia because I have it, and you think you can make me feel better by saying you had the same problem!"

"You don't know what you're saying," Sam said slowly, trying to remain calm. "It's just the amnesia talking."

"No, it's me talking, Sam; and I'm saying I want you to get out of my house and leave me the hell alone!" Al carelessly grabbed the worn out, brown wallet that was stashed between the phone book and the toaster. He stuffed a crinkly five dollar bill into Sam's hand. "Here's the five bucks I owe you," he snarled. "Now take it and get out of here."

"Suit yourself," Sam choked on the words, fighting the urge to show any emotion. He collected his candy bars and his rain gear; and, like a defeated animal, he slowly walked out the front door and into the pouring rain.

"Good riddance," the angry man grunted to himself as he started to puff on another cigar. "Time traveling . . . what a load of crap. That nozzle belongs in the Looney bin."


	8. Chapter 8

Eternity seemed to be the best way to describe the next two weeks. Every day seemed much longer and more drawn out than the day before. No memories returned to Al, and Tina was beginning to doubt that he would ever recover and go back to his former self -- the man she loved and married only two and a half months ago.

When Tina returned from work one day, she was intent on having a little talk with her husband. She tossed her purse and car keys onto the counter and marched up to the small man, who was busy with his studies. Tina stood over him, staring at him as a displeased high school substitute teacher does when she catches the class clown making mischief.

"Ya know, it's been two weeks since Sam's been by," she said casually, masking her feelings of disapproval. "Have you heard from him lately, Al?"

"Maybe he went on vacation," Al said, not bothering to look up at her.

"That's what I thought at first," Tina sighed. "I ran into Donna in the library just now, and she said they haven't gone anywhere; she said Sam won't come by because you told him to go away and leave you alone."

"Yeah, I did," Al said in monotone.

"Why? He's your best friend. What would possess you to do something like that?" Tina's anger was starting to show.

"I've got my reasons."

"Does it have anything to do with this?" she reached over and produced the hand-link which had been sitting behind Al's cigar box for the past couple of weeks, and held it in front of the amnestic. "Does it?" she demanded. Al ignored her as he scraped his pink Hi-lighter across the pages of his computer text book. Determined to get an answer from the stubborn man, she again demanded, "Well does it!"

"Maybe," he snapped. "That guy came in here and started talking about how he could travel in time like that Marty kid in that movie . . . . You know, the one we saw at Sam's when we went over on New Year's Eve. Everybody knows you can't travel in time."

"Sam did travel around in time," Tina insisted. "He leaped from year to year, and you were his observer."

"You disappoint me, Tina. I thought you were smarter than that . . . buying into that sci-fi junk. Can't you see he made the whole stupid thing up?"

"It's the truth, Al."

"And how would you know?"

"Because, damn it, I used to work on Project Quantum Leap! You were on your way there when Sam walked into that Accelerator and leaped."

"You don't work on any project, Tina; you're a nurse," Al objected.

"I started out as a nurse, and after about eleven years I thought I wanted a better paying, more exciting job. I went back to school and studied physics. Then, after I graduated, I met you and you told me about a job opening at Project Quantum Leap. After six years, I left when I read in the paper about a shortage of nurses at the hospital I felt I could do a lot more good if I went back to nursing."

"Well you get an A for creativity." Al said in a sarcastic tone.

"Is it proof you want!" Tina snapped sharply. "There's a whole box of proof over there." She gestured to the open carton that spent the last fourteen days in the corner of the kitchen. "If you would just read some of those notebooks, you'd see that Sam and I are telling you the truth." She stepped around the table, pulled a spiral notebook out of the box, and laid it on top of Al's workbook. "I'm sure you'll find this very interesting."

"What's this?" Al asked as he flipped through the pages.

"It's one of your logs from the project. I think it was from when Sam first leaped." She turned in the direction of the den and added, "If you have trouble understanding anything, I'm sure Sam would be happy to explain it to you when he comes on Saturday."

"What!" Al's hand slammed down onto the notebook's outer cover. "He's coming here!"

"Yes, he is. Sam and Donna are my friends, too, and I would like to see them every once in a while."

"I don't want Sam coming over here; do you hear me, Tina!"

"Now you listen to me, Al Calavicci, you can stay mad at Sam if you want; but as far as I'm concerned, he and Donna are always welcome here! There's nothing more to say. They're coming over for lunch, and you're just gonna have to deal with it!" She abruptly stalked out of the room to leave Al alone with his thoughts.

A Saturday afternoon drive usually was exactly what Sam needed to forget his troubles, but this drive proved less than relaxing.

"I'm telling you, Donna, this is a bad idea. Al doesn't wanna' talk to me anymore." Sam argued as he stepped on the brake and brought the car to a halt in front of the Calavicci house.

"Sam, it's been two weeks since Al told you off; I'm sure he's cooled off by now," Donna countered calmly.

"I'm not so sure about that. Every time I call him on the phone, it's always the same thing . . . . 'I have nothing to say to you, Nozzle', 'Bug off', 'I thought I toldjoo' to leave me alone'. And then there's always a loud click. I don't think I should be here."

"It's the easiest thing in the world to hang up the phone on someone you don't want to talk to, but it's not so easy to dismiss someone who is standing right in front of you," Donna countered as she crawled out of the passenger side and swung the door shut. "I don't think it'll be so bad."

"I still think this is an awful idea," Sam said stubbornly. "You shoulda' come without me."

"And leave you alone in the house to watch videos and stuff yourself with popcorn? Come on." She grabbed Sam by the wrist and towed him to the front door.

The doorbell summoned Tina, who was taking some plates out of the cupboard. "They're here, Al. Check and see if the sandwiches are done, okay?" she requested before she hurried to the front door to let the Becketts in. "Hi, come on in," she greeted.

"Hi, Tina," Donna smiled, "How's Al doing?"

"The same," Tina replied, her inflections shaded with a 'wake up and smell the coffee' tone. "He still can't remember anything." She paused for a moment and then looked up at Sam. "I'm sorry about the way Al's been treating you Sam," she apologized.

"It's all right; it's just his amnesia and frustration talking," Sam admitted.

"Well, I think lunch is almost ready." She led her guests into the kitchen, where Al was setting the table.

"Hi, Al," Sam approached the shorter man. "How's it going?"

"Fine," Al muttered his reply back to Sam.

"Look, Al, I can understand your not believing me about the Project," Sam spoke firmly, determined to get some answers from his friend. "What I don't understand is why you're so mad at me!"

"Because I usually get mad at people who lie to me; I'm funny that way. It's bad enough you waltzed in here expecting me to believe that stupid time travel story. Then you started dishing out all that B.S. about having amnesia. Who's to say

You weren't just goofing with me from the start; I don't really know you're my best friend. I know Tina's my wife because you showed me my wedding ring when I was still in the hospital. You can't prove our friendship, your amnesia, or anything else for that matter."

"Al, if you would just read that notebook . . . ." Tina began.

"What notebook?" Sam stepped into the conversation.

"His log from 1995 . . . after your first leap."

"Perfect. Where is it?"

"On top of the phone book," Tina answered.

"Okay, Al, here's your proof," Sam said opening the book. "Let me read you some of this. 'August 12, 1995 He knew he wasn't supposed to leap, but did he listen to Gooshie and Ziggy? No. Sam is somewhere in the year 1956 and has landed at Edwards Air Force Base. I finally made contact with him earlier this evening. He didn't remember anything except his office telephone number; he didn't even remember me. Hopefully, Gooshie will have the Retrieval Program working and we can get Sam back, but I doubt it. The only one who can bring Sam home is Sam . . . and he's stuck in '56 with a Swiss-cheese memory . . . .' Need I go on?" Sam handed Al the notebook and indicated the scribbly handwriting that covered the lined pages. "Look, it's in your handwriting."

"Oh my G-- It's true," Al whispered studying the passage, guilt forcing his head into his chest. "Then there really is a Quantum Leap time travel project, and . . . and you really did have amnesia. I don't know what to say, Sam. I'm sorry. I shoulda listened to you." Al continued to eye the paper that was undoubtedly covered with words that appeared in his own handwriting. "It really must be true."

"It's okay, Buddy," Sam accepted the admiral's apology. "I probably would have done the same thing in your situation. In fact, I remember I thought you were making everything up, too."

The warm, sentimental moment was marred when Tina announced that the Rubin sandwiches were ready. Everyone sat down to lunch and began to share the gift of gab -- except for Al, who seemed lost in thought. Although his anger for Sam was no more, he found himself dealing with a seemingly age-old problem, his amnesia and whether or not he would ever recover. It didn't take long for the couples to devour their meal and deposit their plates into the sink.

"Who wants to play _Trivial Pursuit_?" Tina asked after scraping all the sandwich fallout into the disposal.

"Sounds good to me," Donna said enthusiastically.

"I could go for a game," Sam added.

"Excuse me but, what is _Trivial Pursuit_?" Al wanted to know.

"It's a board game where you have to answer trivia questions in six different categories, and the first person to get one question from each category wins," Sam replied.

"Oh, sounds like fun."

"Donna, wouldjoo' do me a favor and get it for me, please?" Tina requested loading the plates into the dishwasher. "It's on the book shelf above the dictionary."

With a nod, Donna disappeared into the den and re-entered a second or two later and set up the game on the kitchen table.

"Are we gonna play as teams or individuals?" Sam asked.

"Let's play individually," Donna suggested. "Now, Al, you're supposed to fill your little disk with one wedge in each color," she explained, indicating the circular playing token and six pie-shaped pieces that sat in front of the admiral. "The first one who does this and makes it back to the middle is the winner. The way you fill the disk is to answer certain questions correctly."

"Sounds easy enough."

An hour seemed to fly right passed the players who were totally immersed in the exhilarating game. For the first time in months, Al felt like a whole man and not an unfortunate victim of memory loss. For the time being, it was as if his amnesia never existed.

"1, 2, 3, 4," Donna counted and landed her playing piece on an orange square. "_Sports and Leisure_."

"Okay, Donna, _Sports and Leisure _. . . . 'What is a fruit machine?'," Al read from one of the cards with a 'piece of cake' look in his eyes.

"Oh geez, I don't think I know that one," Donna sighed.

"It's a slot machine."

"Your turn, Al."

Al passed the cards to Tina and rolled the dye. "1, 2, 3 . . . . _Entertainment_."

"Maybe you should go the other way, Al," Tina was hesitant to read the question.

"But then I won't get my little pink thingie," Al countered.

"I don't think you'll be able to get this one, Al . . . Because of your amnesia."

"What does that have to do with anything!" Al snapped, feeling insulted by the assumption. "I don't wanna be some special case. If I get it wrong, I get it wrong."

"'Who directed _Raiders of the Lost Ark_?'," she read.

"Pass," Al said, shaking his head.

"See? The movie was made in the early '80's, and that's during a time period you still don't remember."

Seeing the hurt look on Al's face, Sam growled, "We don't need any comments from the peanut gallery, Tina."

Without a single word, Tina rolled the dye and landed her man on a green square. "It's _Science and Nature_," she pointed out.

"Okay," Sam drew a card and read the words next to the bubble labeled SN. "It says 'How often are brain cells replaced?'."

"Never," Tina answered and inserted a green wedge into her disk.

"Just like my memory," Al murmured in dismay.

"No, Al, don't talk like that. You'll get it back someday," Sam tried to comfort the unhappy man.

"You're wasting your breath, Sam, Al's never gonna get his memory back!" Tina burst out. "All you're doing is building his hopes up on something that will never happen!"

"Tina, be quiet!" Donna hissed.

"We're all gonna have to accept it. Al isn't gonna go back to the way he was before the accident!" Tina continued to rage. "He is never ever gonna remember the last twenty-four years. He'll have to live with it, and so will we! Can't you get it through your thick skull, Sam; Al's memory is gone!"

Heavy blankets of betrayal and defeat hovered and wrapped themselves around the devastated admiral like a smothering shroud. Every heart beat was an atomic explosion that grew more and more powerful with every palpitation. Al seemed to be suffocating in the feeling that he had been, once again, abandoned by someone who was supposed to have loved him. The woman who promised to take him in sickness and in health was now admitting defeat, while assuring Al's. The entire room vanished and was replaced with darkness and emptiness; and before another word was spoken, Al leaped from his seat and barreled up the stairs.

"Tina how could you," Donna demanded. "There was absolutely no reason for that. That was the last thing Al needed to hear."

"You want me to lie and pretend the amnesia will just go away? I told you; Al won't get any better."

"Maybe he won't," Sam rose and stared directly down at Tina. "Maybe you're right . . . . He did have a chance, but now he doesn't have a prayer. What's the sense of trying if there's nobody in your corner to back you up and encourage you? I know this is hard on you, but it's a lot harder on Al. And he needs you to be there for him. My God, Tina, he's been through enough without you throwing a tantrum and saying right in front of him that he'll never realize the one goal he's had since he came to in the hospital. The day Al was released, Streebing said not to count on Al's recovering his memory -- well, I wouldn't count on it either -- not after what you just said."

The angry physicist spun and sped up the stairs after his buddy; and when he stepped into the master bedroom, all signs of life drained from his face at the sight he encountered. Sam's stomach lurched, and tornados of dizziness filled his head when he saw the smaller man sprawled out, face-down on the bed overtaken with hiccupping cries and convulsive movements. Although muffled, each wail was a stone that caused Sam's stomach to stir like a stormy sea. In all the years he had known Al, Sam had never once seen the smaller man cry so hard.

"Al?" Sam whispered as he sat on the edge of the bed and rested his warm, concerned hand on the other man's back.

Al did what he could to pull himself together and regain his composure. He turned over on his back and looked up at Sam through two slits that hid his swollen, tear-filled eyes. "Maybe she's right . . . I'm gonna have to go through the rest of my life like this."

"No, Al," Sam spoke softly. "Just because Tina gave up doesn't mean you should."

"I'm not a whole man anymore, Sam. There's a big hole in my life; and no matter how hard I try, I can't fill it in again. For the last two months, I've been busting my brains out trying to get my memory back."

"Well, maybe you're trying too hard. As I told you before, overcoming a memory loss takes a long time . . . . I mean, look at me. It took me about six years to regain my memory. You need to have more patience."

"I . . . I don't think I . . . I don't think I can live like this much longer. I hate it. I don't really think I can sit around and wait for the magical Memory Fairy to appear and give it all back when I'm sleeping. It's not gonna happen for me, Sam."

"Not if you quit, Al. Your memory is somewhere in there," Sam assured tapping Al's forehead. "Trust me; I know it'll come back to you again, Buddy. You've already had flashbacks . . . the ladder, the music box, and the hand-link."

"No, Sam," Al disagreed in a voice tinted with a 'thanks for trying' inflection. "I won't get any better. I have amnesia, and I'm gonna have to get used to it 'cause that's the way it's gonna be."

"I can't accept that."

"You're gonna have to, Sam. Instead of trying to change me back, why don'tcha just accept me the way I am now. If you're really my friend, you would."

"I can't believe you're just giving up like this!" Sam spoke sharply. "There are some amnesia victims who never get their memories back, but you're one of the lucky ones, Al; you have a chance to get well, and you're willing to toss it all out the window. The Albert Calavicci I know wouldn't do that! For God's sake, Al, don't give up on yourself. Memory is a very complicated thing; it can come back when you're least expecting it . . . and it might come back in pieces or all at once. Maybe you won't get anything back, but I think there's a good chance you'll regain some, if not all of it. But it sure as hell won't come back if you bury your head in the sand and hide."

"It's hopeless, Sam!" Al countered as if to say 'Are you terminally stupid or what?'. "It's over; I'm never gonna remember those twenty-four years again!" he cried out, tears pouring from his swollen eyes.

"Yes you will! I'm gonna fix everything, and you'll getcher' memory back!" Sam stormed.

"What . . . How?" Al's curious inquiry was unheard by the physicist who had just darted out of the bedroom.

Tina and Donna had just packed the _Trivial Pursuit_ game when they heard Sam tear down the stairs like a runaway freight train and burst into the room in search of his car keys.

"Sam, what's the matter!" Donna cried out in alarm.

"Here they are," Sam mumbled to himself, snatching the silver ring that held four keys and a shiny-blue S. "If you need me, I'll be at the Project."

"The Project! Why are you going to the Project?" Donna demanded.

"It's Al . . . . He's in pretty bad shape; he's given up on himself and is convinced he'll never get his memory back." Sam answered.

"But what does that have to do with the Project?"

"I'm gonna' leap into Al on November 26, 2001, and prevent the accident from ever happening. No accident -- no amnesia."

"We've been through this before, Sam," Donna interrupted, "and you know how I feel about your leaping again!"

"So you want me to leave him like this; is that whatchoo want! No, Donna . . . I can't do that . . . . I can't stand seeing him like this anymore."

"Do you actually expect me to say 'go ahead' and possibly lose you a third time? Absolutely not!"

"My mind's made up," Sam said stubbornly. "I'm going."

"No, you're not!" Donna yelled, grabbing Sam by the arms and trying feverishly to hold him back.

"Let me go!" Sam roared. Bound and determined to liberate his closest friend from the amnesia and depression that was holding him captive, Sam jammed his elbow into Donna's ribs. The dark haired woman yelped and clutched the bruised area, allowing Sam to escape her grasp and peel out the front door. The two women scrambled to the front doorstep, only to see him turn around a corner and disappear.

"We've gotta get to the Project and stop Sam before it's too late!" Donna cried out in panic. "Where are your keys, Tina?"

"In my purse on the counter," Tina called back, dashing into the kitchen.

"What's going on down here?" Al appeared at the top of the stairs and descended the carpeted structure. "You'd think there was a war."

"There's no time to talk," was all Tina said before she whizzed out the door.

"I don't get it . . . what's happening here!" the man demanded. "Where's Sam?"

Before she realized Al had no real memory of the Project, Donna blurted, "He's leaping, Al. Sam's leaping!"

All of a sudden, an all too familiar cloud of terror hovered over Al and showered him with a very eerie feeling. The interior of the house and all the sounds within its walls faded into an empty void, where voices could be heard. They were as vivid as bursts of bright color appearing in total darkness, and they echoed as if broadcasting via a loud speaker.

"'He's leaping! Ziggy said no, but Sam's leaping!'" one voice shouted.

The other bodiless entity had Al's voice. "'He can't leap; we're not ready!'"

"No, Sammy!" Al screamed, breaking free from the void and racing out the front door.

The race to the Project seemed to take hours on end. Red traffic lights greeted the three worried parties on just about every street corner; and, with every stop, their hearts pounded harder and harder. Tension and fear filled their bodies, and the three felt as though their heads would burst at any second.

Tina pulled the car into the Project's parking lot and she and her company tumbled out of the small transport. They darted right past the Security gate, claiming there was an emergency. While Tina and Donna split up to search Sam's office and on-site quarters, Al found himself drawn to another destination. He ran down several flights of stairs as though in a life-and-death situation; and after scampering down the tenth flight, he burst into the corridor.

The admiral came to a full stop when he saw Sam, clad in a white protective suit, wrestling with a short man in a lab coat. The smaller man was trying to keep the physicist from entering the room hidden by the door marked ACCELERATOR.

""I'm gonna leap, Gooshie . . . and don't try to stop me!" Sam roared as he grabbed the technician and threw him across the corridor.

Gooshie tumbled to the floor and landed flat on his back. The impact had knocked the wind out of him. Realizing that Gooshie would not be able to stop Sam from entering the Accelerator, Al lunged forward and pounced on the taller man as a bear attacks its prey.

"Let me up!" Sam ordered.

"No!" Al pleaded. "Don't do this, Sam!"

"Al, I'm doing it for you!"

"You can't leap; you just can't!" Al begged.

"I can and I will!" Sam insisted.

"No you can't; I won't let you!"

"Won't let me getcher memory back?"

"No, Sammy, I'd rather live with amnesia for the rest of my life than risk losing you again!"

"What?" Sam ceased his struggle. "What did you just say, Al?"

""Don'tcha remember the first time you leaped? It took us six years to getchoo back again," Al stared down at his friend, tears clinging to his chin. "Do you really wanna put me through all that again?"

"Al!" Sam worked himself into a sitting position, his hazel eyes wide and his face colored with happiness. "Al, listen to yourself . . . . You're remembering! You just remembered how you felt the first time I leaped!"

"I . . . I really remembered something?" Al whispered to himself, expecting it to be too good to be true. As he helped his buddy to his feet, he continued, "I can't believe it . . . . Are you sure it was a real memory this time?"

"Was it another flashback?" At Al's nod, Sam prompted, "Was it like the others?"

"Not really . . . It stuck with me from the time Donna said you were leaping, and I can't get it out of my head. The other stuff was just weird feelings, but this -- It was more than just a feeling. Oh, Sam, it was so real. It felt like an actual memory this time. Just like the memories I have from before '77."

"I think you're recovering, Pal." Sam happily diagnosed. "It might not all come back; but if you let nature take its course, and if the memory is important enough, it'll come back to you."

Unable to think of anything more to say to the recovering amnestic, Sam threw his arms around him and hugged him tightly. With tears of joy flowing down his cheeks, Al returned the embrace, squeezing with all his strength. Neither man knew whether or not Al would make a full recovery, but they were certain that that first memory was one they would carry with them for the rest of their lives.

14


End file.
